


Diplomacy

by cairn



Category: Fire Emblem: Kakusei | Fire Emblem: Awakening
Genre: Alternate Universe - Arranged Marriage, F/M, Marriage of Convenience
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-01
Updated: 2016-08-06
Packaged: 2018-04-12 11:07:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 51,102
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4477001
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cairn/pseuds/cairn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Chrom's advisors hound him to find a wife, Maribelle sees a chance to fix both their problems - and save Lissa from a potential arranged marriage.<br/></p><div class="center">
  <p> </p>
  <p>    <em>"A prince cannot marry for love. Neither can a lady." </em><br/></p>
</div>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue - The Proposal

**Author's Note:**

> Please note that this is a mild AU where Maribelle does not have a crush on Chrom as a child and Ylissean politics are a little more vicious. The next chapter is already written and should be posted within the next few days; in the meantime, please enjoy this little prologue.

  
  


“Someone to see you, my lord.” 

Chrom glanced up from the sheaf of parchment in front of him, blinked twice. “What?”

“Lady Maribelle, my lord. She is here to see you.” The door peeked open slightly to reveal the edge of a ruffled skirt before the tip of a parasol emerged and immediately swung the door open to reveal her pinched smile, just lightly irritated enough to still be charming.

“Maribelle.” Chrom paused. “Hi.” He immediately pushed the parchments to his right, managing to narrowly avoid an inkpot as he did so. 

“Good day, milord.” She swept in with all the force of a small storm, pink breeches swapped out for a light green dress the color of her family crest, but hair still up in her tightly spun curls. When she sat in the seat opposite him, she laid the parasol across her knees instead of resting the tip on the stone floor. 

“Oh.” Maribelle looked down at the white umbrella in her lap, evidently following his gaze. “My apologies, milord. It is –”

“Merely a habit.” Chrom nodded. Even while travelling with the Shepherds, she had refused to let the brilliantly starched white parasol touch the muddy ground, even once. 

She smiled tightly back at him. “Exactly.” 

“So. To what do I owe the pleasure?” Chrom clasped his hands in front of him on the table.

Maribelle took a slight breath before speaking. “Milord, it has come to my attention that there is rumor your advisors wish to find you a wife.”

Chrom’s entire demeanor tightened. He instantly grimaced. “Well. I’m not surprised the heir of the duchy of Themis has heard of this. Especially since she’s also Lissa’s close confidant.”

“Yes, milord. I have word from Lissa, but I mostly speak of hearing things from others – other noblewomen. Gossip runs quickly through these halls, milord.” At Chrom’s immediate scowl, Maribelle continued. “As much we wish it would not, of course.”

“Of course.” Chrom pulled one of the pieces of parchment back in front of him and began to fidget with the corner of it. “Well, what do you have to say of these gossips, then?”

“It is not the gossips I come to speak about today, milord, but the truth.” 

Chrom looked up. Maribelle’s eyes were fixed directly on his. “The truth?”

“Yes, milord.” She paused, smoothed an imagined crease out of her dress. “I wanted to hear from you – much as it may not be any of my business, of course – what you mean to do about it.”

Chrom’s lip curled down, and he fixed his gaze at the parchment as though to burn holes in it. “It is rumor. My advisors cannot force me into marriage.”

“But they can, milord.” He looked up to speak, but Maribelle held up a lace-gloved hand. “Please. If you would let me continue, milord.”

He nodded stiffly, and she regally inclined her head in response. “Thank you, milord. We both know that your advisors hold considerable sway. You have not been the exalt long, milord. There is not much we can do about them, unfortunately – they will pester you until your ears bleed, if you will please pardon the rough expression.”

Chrom looked as though she was forcing him to eat lemons, but he sighed, looking up. “I admit, you are correct.”

“And yet you have no plans?” Maribelle’s hands tightened around her parasol.

“I will marry for love,” Chrom bit out. He looked briefly to the side, as though his bookshelf would give him answers. “I refuse to be… forced into something I do not wish.”

“And what about Lissa, then?” 

His head immediately snapped back to meet her gaze, eyes darkening. “What do you mean by that? Lissa has nothing to do with this.”

“Au contraire, my dear prince.” Maribelle’s lips thinned. “Unfortunately, court politics being as it is… one of you will most likely be asked – and by asked, well, it goes without saying that there is force behind the question – to marry for something other than love. If not you, my – our – dearest Lissa.”

“I won’t allow it.” Chrom’s voice was steel, the voice of a man well-accustomed to giving commands he knew would be followed.

Maribelle shut her eyes and smiled with no warmth. “I would not either, milord. Unfortunately, it is not my decision to make. After all, there are many options for your advisors to suggest. There is a duke from Regna Ferox who has been sending letters to one of your advisors, you know. A few noblemen in court with rich purses who could be useful in potentially stabilizing your rather fluctuating coffers, a few earls scattered around, and I’ve heard word that a lord from Plegia, of all places, is looking to solidify an alliance. Virion has been whispering something about a Valmese nobleman, and –”

“All right, that’s quite enough.” Chrom raised a hand as though to physically block her words. “Plenty of options. I get it.”

“And all of them are loose cannons. Loose ends.” Maribelle’s face pinched into a scowl. “We know not enough about any of them, and I refuse to place dear Lissa in a situation where she would be harmed.”

“Gods, no.” Chrom’s expression darkened. “I would never let Lissa be – no. Never.”

“Well, then, milord.” Maribelle said. “What are you going to do about the situation?”

He eyed her before eventually breaking eye contact and sighing. He covered his eyes with one gloved hand. “Oh, gods. Lissa.” 

“If you married advantageously, it is unlikely Lissa will have to, milord. She is, after all, younger, and you would have fodder and influence enough to push your advisors away. They have not turned to her yet.” 

There was a pause. Maribelle’s eyes fell to the parchment on Chrom’s desk. It was a treaty, something in legal writing. Chrom’s signature was scribbled out at the bottom. Several quiet, long seconds passed.

“Yes. Fine. You are right, Maribelle.” His voice was heavy. “Why have you come here to say this?”

Maribelle took a breath, steadied herself. “Milord, I have come to recommend you a course of action.”

“What?” Chrom’s hand slipped from his face, his expression close to anger. “So you too would advise me, for ‘the good of the kingdom’?”

“No, milord.” Maribelle bit her tongue lightly between her teeth, thinking about how to continue. “As I am sure your advisors have let you know, there are many women who would serve you well as options for marriage.”

“I am well aware of the copious options open to me.” Chrom grimaced, presumably at the thought of the multiple advisors who hounded him. 

“Good. I am here to offer you a different way of proceeding.” His eyes were immediately on her. She pushed her shoulders back, posture ramrod straight. “I am here to offer myself, milord.”

“What?” Chrom looked immediately wary, the self-same expression he wore before a fight. She looked at her parasol and then back up again.

“I am a noblewoman, milord, daughter and sole heir to Duke and Duchess Themis. This, and the money my family name makes, will throw a bone to those slavering advisors of yours. I am a Shepherd, so I will know those you spend time with and I will understand your devotion to them over the royal army.”

Chrom opened his mouth but Maribelle swiftly cut him off. “I am dearly devoted to Lissa. I consider her a sister already, and it would be my honor to be her sister by law. I am acquainted with the court already, as a foreigner would not be. And… if I may be so bold, we are friends. I am no stranger.”

“But – Maribelle, wait.” Chrom looked entirely lost. He touched the desk in several places, shifting things around as though to find some meaning in the papers around him. “Why do you suggest this? I don’t understand.”

“It solves many problems,” Maribelle said levelly. Her grip tightened on her parasol again, until she looked at her lap and noticed her knuckles had gone the same color as the lace. 

“But…” Chrom looked at the ceiling, back at her, and then to his desk. His eyebrows were drawn together, his eyes, so like Lissa’s, wide and confused. “But, Maribelle, you have no stake in this. Why do you not… I mean, I am appreciative of the offer, but this doesn’t make sense.”

Maribelle looked at her hands again, and forcibly loosened her grip. “A prince cannot marry for love. Neither can a lady.”

The noise of a chair creaking was the only marker of Chrom’s discomfort, as Maribelle refused to look up. “Wait, Maribelle. I am appreciative. Please understand.”

“No, milord, I do understand. Neither of us are in a position to be picky.” She forced herself to meet his eyes, so blue and wide. “You would do well to marry a soon-to-be-Duchess, and I am also hounded to marry, though by my father. I do not expect love, but I doubt you do either, milord.”

Chrom was silent. She met his eyes for a minute longer before standing.

“I will see you tomorrow morn, I am sure, milord. Please consider the offer.”


	2. The Ceremony

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I realized I had not clarified the time of this story - this occurs during the two-year period after Chapter 11 in a scenario where Chrom doesn't automatically marry when he returns to Ylisse. The prologue (and this chapter) occurs probably two or three months after their return to Ylisstol. Please enjoy.

  
  
She had always imagined flowers. And tea – lots of it. Valmese tea, entire barrels shipped over, the journey so long that even the barrel’s wood became fragrant. Flowers, tea, fine china so delicate that only real ladies could drink from it (and she grew out of that one soon, realizing practically that fine china would not be entirely appropriate if the gathering was too large, especially considering she would have to invite the Shepherds, and Vaike would literally be a bull in a china shop). She had imagined little cakes and silverware and her mother’s old white veil, the lace so precise it was a miracle of human handiwork.

She had always imagined she would be marrying some foreign lord. She thought Regna Ferox for a while, until she was seven and met a boy from Regna Ferox at a family party, surely a son of some nobleman, who had tried to fight her with a stick of a sword and she had declared him a brute. Then she’d switched to Plegia briefly, before realizing they were somewhat at war and changed to Valm. Then she had met Virion and quickly crushed that idea when she imagined a life of sickeningly sweet lies that passed for compliments. Then she’d swung back to Regna Ferox until she’d gone there with the rest of the Shepherds and realized it was actually as horridly damp, cold and brutish as she had originally thought. Then she hadn’t been quite sure.

Now it somehow made sense, in the way that the monks would have called the ways of Naga, in the way some things were strangely circular. She was to marry the brother of her closest friend, the boy she had admired for part of her life who grew into the man she served. The man she had dismissed as Lissa’s brother, even when he shot up and became all elbows and spine, even when he fought Frederick enough times to grow muscle and become all broad shoulders and narrow waist, all hair in his eyes and decisive commands. 

And, of course – and this was the only thing she used to imagine about her future wedding that was soon to become a reality – she did not love him.

All the rest, all the dreams and casual thoughts she’d accumulated over the years, were different than the reality. She was to marry him, in a near silent affair, in the castle’s chapel tonight. Frederick, Lissa, the monk, and the happy couple. 

She closed her eyes at the very thought of Lissa’s expression when she had told her that Chrom and herself were to be married. She had gasped, a noise that was almost a shriek, and immediately began speculating about how silent their affair had been, how-did-I-not-know, why-was-this-behind-my-back, why-didn’t-you-tell-me, what-do-you-see-in-him, oh-my-gods-this-is-crazy. This excitement had quickly faded to confusion as Maribelle had stared at her cooling tea instead of responding. 

“What’s wrong?” Lissa’s blue eyes, wide, eyebrows tilting upwards. “C’mon, Maribelle. Why didn’t you want me to know? Did you – did you think I’d be mad? I mean, Chrom’s an idiot, and he’s… I mean, how could I be mad if you like him?

“Lissa,” she had began, “Lissa, dearest. I am – I don’t love him.”

“What?” The light had hit Maribelle’s tea and her face so she could see a blurry reflection of herself barely on the surface of the tea, look at that instead of Lissa.

“Maribelle!” A white boot hit the floor with all the little amount of force Lissa could exert. She had stood, and the movement made Maribelle look up. “You don’t – you and Chrom – he loves you? And you don’t?”

Maribelle’s lips had twisted briefly before she raised the cup to her lips, an empty gesture given that she didn’t take a drink at all. Even the delicately fragrant tea was threatening to turn her stomach. She had taken another moment to set the cup down on her saucer, another moment to brace herself.

“Lissa, you know that my station requires things of me that I cannot control.”

“But –” 

Maribelle had held up a hand, and looked up to face the girl entirely. “Your brother is much the same way, you know. Anyone who is highborn is eventually going to be considered for marriage in ways that, perhaps, are unwelcome. We have decided – together – that while it may not be for love, we will marry to satisfy certain requirements others have placed upon us.”

Lissa’s eyes never looked more blue than when her eyes reddened and caused a vivid contrast with her irises. Maribelle had years of experience dealing with Lissa, but even a casual observer would have found the correct words to describe her expression – verging on tears.

“So what you’re saying… you and Chrom aren’t even going to try? You don’t even care? I thought he wanted – I thought he loved –” She had broken off as her voice cracked, shook her head, pigtails bobbing, and continued. “Maribelle, I thought you were going to tell your father to back off!”

“Lissa, please,” she had tried.

“No! You’re both just resigning yourself to this? I can’t believe it! Maribelle, you’re always telling me to – to not listen to ‘the brutes,’ and all of that! How can you do this to yourself? How can you and Chrom do this to yourselves?” The teacup Lissa had been holding had fallen to the ground as the girl had stood, but it had somehow avoiding shattering. When Maribelle had bent to retrieve it after Lissa’s tearful exit, she realized the cup had not even cracked.

Unfortunately, Maribelle grimaced, the years of trust and friendship the two girls had shared had indeed cracked slightly. No damage that was unrepairable – Maribelle immediately uttered “Perish the thought,” despite the fact that she was alone in her room – but damage all the same. It had been four days, and Lissa was still noticeably absent from her life. 

A sudden rap on her door made Maribelle straighten into even more formidably perfect posture. “Yes?”

“It’s me.” Frederick. She immediately identified the dour tone, years of shared experiences making the job easy. “If you are ready, milady.”

“Yes, of course. Thank you, Frederick.” Standing, she walked to the door and then, briefly looking down at her dress that was as pale as her shaking hands, opened it and stepped outside.

“This way, milady.” Maribelle nodded and followed the great knight’s clanking armor down to the castle’s private chapel.  
Frederick cleared his throat. “I hope you will be happy, milady.”

“Thank you, Frederick.” Maribelle kept her eyes on the stone stairs that descended down in front of them. 

“I promise to defend you as Chrom’s future wife, the future wife of the exalt, and as a fellow Shepherd.” 

“Thank you, Frederick. I am touched.” Maribelle was not in the mood for talk, but his words were kind and well meaning, as Frederick often was. She suddenly smiled slightly, remembering something from their campaign to Plegia. “Does this mean you are willing to lay out my clothes each day as you do for darling Lissa?”

“Er.” Frederick looked rather as though something large had caught in his throat. He coughed a few times as though to clear it out but didn’t answer.

Maribelle smiled and let the conversation rest at that note until they made it to the large double doors that marked the private chapel. 

As they approached, she took a breath. It would be fine. Frederick stood at attention at her side, and then opened the door to the right to allow her to enter. 

The chapel was almost entirely grey stone, save a thin line of carved wood that ran down the center of the aisled seats from the center of the threshold to the altar, where the wood suddenly grew and rose into a giant carved portrait of Naga. The dragon’s jaws were open, directly above the waiting priest. Libra, Maribelle recognized. Her frayed nerves were preventing her from being surprised, but then again, it made sense. One less person to wonder whether they would go and tell the castle in the dead of night before Chrom wished the news revealed to his court.

The exalt himself was facing her, and Maribelle steeled herself to meet his eyes. His blue hair looked almost black in the dark chapel, but his armor (his full armor, she noticed, as though she was something he needed to be protected from) glinted in the low candlelight. Lissa was a lighter shape at Libra’s left, but Maribelle didn’t quite wish to face her yet, and she kept her eyes trained at Chrom’s until he looked away to the stone at his feet.

Frederick cleared his throat slightly behind her and Maribelle began to walk forward. No organ music played, no lyres sang their high-pitched tunes, and not a single person sat eagerly in the pews, marveling at the beauty of the bride. Her mother was not crying into a kerchief, her father was not at her side to usher her down the walkway. Her footsteps were drowned out by Frederick’s full armor clanking directly behind her. She kept her shoulders back until she reached the little array of three in front of her and turned to face her soon-to-be-husband. Lissa hovered behind her left shoulder, her gaze a prick at Maribelle’s back.

Libra cleared his throat as soon as Frederick had settled, hands clasped in front of him, behind Chrom. “I will make this short.”

“We are gathered here today in Naga’s name, under her sight and in the presence of these witnesses, to join Lady Maribelle of Themis, third of her name, and Exalt Chrom of the Halidom of Ylisse, first of his name, in the sacred vow of marriage. If any one can show just cause why these two should not be joined in marriage, let them speak now or forever hold their peace.”

The silence spoke for itself.

“Then, I must ask. Lord Chrom, do you take Lady Maribelle as your wife, to live together after Naga’s ordinance?” 

There was a slight shift of armor, and Maribelle met blue eyes. The shaking in her hands did not stop at the intensity of his gaze. Chrom took a breath, and, holding her eyes, spoke.

“I, Chrom of Ylisse, take Maribelle as my wife, from this day forward. I vow to protect you with my life, to honor you as highly as I am able, to fight with you and for you until my last breath. I choose you as the one with whom I will spend my life.” 

Maribelle let out a shaky breath she didn't realize she had been holding. It was strange to hear a voice she had always heard yelling commands on the battlefield speak such traditional vows in the same echoing tones that he uttered his speeches before their battles. He always sounded so sincere, so regal. A younger Maribelle would surely have blushed, truly thinking him sincere.

“Lady Maribelle, do you take Lord Chrom as your husband, to live together after Naga’s ordinance?”

Maribelle cleared her throat, keeping her expression carefully schooled as she met Chrom’s eyes again. It was hard to make out his expression in the flickering darkness.

“I, Maribelle of Themis, take Lord Chrom as my husband, from this day forward. I vow to stand beside you all my life, to honor you as highly as I am able, to fight with you and for you until my last breath. I choose you as the one with whom I will spend my life.”

Libra motioned Lissa and Frederick forward, all the while looking at the two in front of him. “By these rings, you receive a physical form of this spoken union. May it be blessed by Naga even in the darkest of your days.”

Maribelle suddenly felt a stab of panic, as though she had only just walked through the threshold of the chapel. Lissa offered her a golden band, and when she met the girl’s eyes, Lissa smiled. It was a smaller facsimile of her usual bright grin, but with it Maribelle steadied enough to take the ring.

Chrom held out his hand, and she placed her left hand in his. She looked at him, and then to the heavy signet ring he slid on her finger. The Brand of the Exalt glinted slightly, thick enough to make the ring heavy. She knew the oft-quoted legend, passed between blushing girls – his father had given him the ring, forged at his birth, to give to his wife. How many girls dreamed of this moment, she wondered. How many court ladies would swoon into his arms now, how many would rise up and kiss his lips before completing their half of the deal.

She merely withdrew her hand from his, allowing him to remove his glove, and slid the ring Lissa had given her onto his hand. The only sound in the chapel was the echoed sound of their breathing. His left hand had a callus on it from wielding his sword too violently for even his gloves to protect him against, and it rubbed rough against her fingers.

Libra cleared his throat as soon as the ring was secure, and Maribelle quickly removed her hands from Chrom’s. “In the eyes of these witnesses, and all else you may encounter, you are now man and wife.”

Maribelle deliberately met his eyes again. Chrom immediately looked away, and so, having tried to pretend they weren’t entirely uncomfortable with one another, she instead turned her gaze to the monk at her left.

Libra met her eyes and smiled gently. She nodded at him as serenely as she could manage, not trusting her voice to thank him for performing his duty for such an evidently loveless couple. Shame suddenly rose in her gut, though Libra’s expression was calm as ever – shame that her only marriage, her vows for life, her life from thence onward, preceded over by this monk, were with a man who refused to meet her eyes. 

Maribelle glanced, unbidden, at the strange weight on her fingers again. Her father, at least, would be pleased. She had married well. He would be informed soon of this, and she could only imagine his expression, his exultation. Now, Maribelle reflected, the only expression of joy in the room was when Lissa grinned again when Maribelle looked at her. Frederick was frowning, as he always was, and Chrom was shifting from foot to foot as though sizing up a Risen to attack.

“I would’ve brought flower petals to throw at you now,” Lissa said, her voice high and echoing in the room, loud enough to make everyone look at her, “but it would’ve made cleaning up a mess.” With these words, Maribelle immediately knew the spat they had experienced was over. Trust her dear Lissa to try to diffuse the stifling situation. 

“Your thoughts are appreciated,” Maribelle said, managing to coax her lips into almost smiling. 

Lissa’s smile grew only wider in response, and she quickly threaded her arm with Maribelle’s. “But man, now I’m totally exhausted. It’s definitely way past midnight already.” 

Maribelle recognized this as an entirely too transparent way out of the chapel, and seized on it. “Well, then, I would be pleased to escort you to your rooms. You don’t know what kind of brigands would gladly snatch you away in the dead of night, Lissa.” 

“What!” Lissa frowned indignantly. “This is Ylisstol’s castle! Do you really imagine that brigands live here?” 

“Milady, I would be more than happy to accompany Lissa to her rooms.” Maribelle halted at Frederick’s voice. “If you will follow me, milady,” he indicated to Lissa and began to walk to the chapel’s entrance. 

Lissa glanced between Maribelle and Chrom a few times before hesitantly slipping her arm from Maribelle’s. “Well… I guess if Frederick goes with me, I’ll be safe.”

Maribelle pursed her lips and nodded. Lissa gave them both one last smile (whether it was intended more for Chrom or for herself, she did not know) and quickly sped down the aisle to reach Frederick, who was holding the door open for her. The heavy noise of the door shutting echoed through the room. There was an extended pause in which Maribelle wished she had her parasol to clutch.

“Well, I think I should go now, as well,” Libra said. She didn’t turn to see his expression, but felt him brush her skirts as he swept between them. “Good night to you both.” 

It was only when the door shut a second time that Maribelle turned back to look at Chrom, realizing he was already looking at her. 

“Perhaps we should also retire, then,” she said. The words were stale between her lips, and she winced internally before they even left her mouth. 

“Yes. I think you are right.” Chrom’s expression was still hard to make out, but the arm he offered her was easily seen even in the darkness. Maribelle carefully linked her arm through his, not failing to realize it was his bare right arm, the Brand of the Exalt contrasted against his skin. The edge of his cape grazed her arm as they began to walk down the aisle, and she kept her eyes trained directly in front of her, staring blindly at the doors.

Were they to process to his rooms in this way? Was he to set her back in front of her rooms and leave just as silently as they now walked? Maribelle nodded once, so slightly even Chrom beside her could not have noticed. She was a lady, and she was now his wife. If he led her to his rooms, she was prepared –

“Maribelle?” Chrom asked. She started, and then coughed daintily into the hand that wasn’t resting on his arm. 

“Yes, milord?” 

He huffed. “You know, you may call me Chrom now. You have no excuse now.”

“You are quite right.” Even though she didn’t say them, Maribelle’s mind still added a quiet ‘milord’ to her words. “But I fear I interrupted your thoughts. What is it you wanted?”

“Yes. That.” Chrom pushed open the door to the chapel and ushered her through with a quick wave of his hand that was more commanding than kind, although the distracted look in his eyes suggested it was habit rather than purposeful. “Hm.”

Maribelle glanced at him quickly. His brows were drawn down over his eyes, and though the corridor was better lit, with larger torches than the meager candles in the chapel, she still could not discern whether he was worried or irritated.

“I will have your things moved,” Chrom began, somewhat unsteadily. “There is a set of rooms closer to mine you are welcome to use, if you so desire.” 

“Of course. Thank you for your kind offer, mi – Chrom.” His name was unwieldy. Saying it seemed to weigh her ring down heavier, though her hand was now supported by said man’s arm. It was as she had heard Tharja explain in unnerving detail to Robin – some claimed names held untold power, and mages were able to tap into these streams of power. 

“Not at all.” He shifted back and forth slightly and then began to walk them to the staircase Maribelle had processed down earlier. 

She realized he was unconsciously biting the inside of his mouth and was vividly reminded of a much younger Chrom, glimpsed through the doors to Lissa’s room.

“Chrom,” she said, and he immediately stopped dead and looked at her. Best to get this over with. “Where exactly are we going?”

“Uh.” He looked to both sides awkwardly, met her eyes, and then sighed, visibly deflating and letting go of her arm. “Gods. For what it is worth, I apologize for this foolishness.” 

“Not at all, milord,” she began, wondering exactly what ‘this foolishness’ encompassed, and whether it was their actions just now or if it was the whole marriage.

“Chrom,” he cut in, and immediately ran a gloved hand down his face when she stopped with her mouth still open. “Again. Sorry. Please continue.”

“No,” she pursed her lips and began again. “It’s me who should apologize, Chrom. I keep… Old habits are hard to break.”

“Enough.” Chrom straightened himself. “No apologies. It is late; we are tired. I will bring you to your rooms and you will sleep. Anything else can wait until morning.”

“All right.” Maribelle nodded decisively, thankful the uncomfortable Chrom had once more ceded to the Chrom who served as her commander, convincing and confident. It didn't matter that this was his business face – Maribelle was well accustomed to facing all things with her business face. And, after all, this marriage was a business matter. To have the problem settled was a relief in either case.

“Then.” He held his arm out to her once again and she took it. 

The two walked in silence up the staircase and down the long hallway that led to her current guest rooms. When they drew to a stop, she unthreaded her arm from his and nodded as steadily as she could muster. 

“Good night, Chrom.”

He nodded, and a tiny smile flickered across his face. “Yes. Good night, Maribelle.” 

She opened the door, stepped inside, and waited for the door to close.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We don’t get a lot about Naga or the Ylissean religion, so all of the vows and the details of the chapel are entirely unfounded. My apologies if there’s a more canon version of this that I’m unaware of; I haven’t played any other Fire Emblem game. 
> 
> Fun fact: this marriage sequence, and the secrecy around it, is based on Henry VIII’s secret marriage to Anne Boleyn, which happened while he was still married to Catherine of Aragon. Of course, Chrom is not married at this time, and he’s not planning to behead Maribelle. Then again, Henry VIII didn’t plan to at the time either… I’m kidding.


	3. The Presentation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some people write chapters. I write monstrosities. 5,000 words? Oops. You can probably tell already, but this is definitely going to be slow burn.

  
  
Maribelle sighed and sunk her face into the dress in front of her on the bed. All of Ylisse waited for her to walk outside in this dress. The court ladies, each more beautiful than the last, the twittering birds that surrounded Chrom and Lissa daily, would be there to see her stand on the balcony of the castle as the court trumpeters announced their marriage. It would be almost a scandal – right now, only a few intimate friends were aware, and all of Ylisstol would be shocked to find out their newest exalt was married to a daughter of a duke from provincial Ylisse. Not one of the court ladies, but a girl who rode with him and fought alongside him. Not even all of the Shepherds knew. 

Frederick, of course, knew, and Lissa, and Libra as well. She was fairly certain that Stahl had figured something out after seeing her and Chrom together, because when she occasionally ran into him after his morning training she had realized he had begun carefully watching his words in her presence. Maribelle also had the sneaking suspicion Robin had devised the meaning of her new rooms in the castle, not so easily explained away by citing diplomacy on the behalf of her father.

They were beautiful rooms, she admitted. The ceiling was high, the bedding was unimaginably comfortable, and the tapestry that decorated the wall opposite her bed was a work of art. She had a vanity, a desk, two tea sets that were priceless (and she hadn’t needed the Royal Treasury’s stamp to verify it), plus an array of sitting chairs for said tea sets to be used upon. Her closet, a room itself, was a marvel of engineering. No matter how much debris her parents sent her, it managed to still have extra space in it. 

And speaking of her parents. Maribelle sighed into the fabric of her dress. Her father had written her pages of letters exulting in how advantageous this union was, had sent her multiple dresses that would ‘well show Ylisstol his daughter,’ and then had explained how he was extremely sorry to miss their official presentation to Ylisse but he couldn’t make it due to a conflict. Her mother, by contrast, had sent very few letters that mostly rebuked her for not consulting them beforehand about this marriage, fretting about her daughter’s happiness more to herself than asking Maribelle how she was.

Of course, then there was Chrom. Maribelle sat up, pinched the bridge of her nose, and began to carefully unlace her dress in preparation to don the traditional wedding dress spread out in front of her. He was still himself - nothing dramatic had changed in their relationship. She hadn’t so much as touched his arm since he had led her up to her previous guest rooms two weeks ago. He mostly busied himself with affairs of the state, and many of their conversations were centered upon business – how they were going to present the marriage to Ylisse, how they were going to inform his advisors, the court, the Shepherds, the particulars of her rooms (would she like anything else in them? Would she like another maid?), how her parents had reacted to the news, and discussions of Ylissean politics. Chrom so far was equally as untouchable, unknowable, as her husband as he had been as her commander.

“Celia!” Maribelle called loudly. The door opened a crack and the maid Chrom (or more likely Lissa, she thought) had assigned to her stepped through and dipped a curtsy. “Help me into this.”

“Of course, milady.” She was younger than Maribelle, hair up in her little white hat and apron neatly starched. The Brand of the Exalt was embroidered in the lapel of her collar, and Maribelle was vividly reminded of Chrom again.

While Celia busied herself with the dress that frankly was the size of Frederick’s horse when spread on the ground, Maribelle exactingly went through the ceremony ahead of her. They would be presented officially to a large crowd of commoners, and then process directly to the court to be presented again ceremonially to the Ylissean court and Chrom’s advisors. “Happy couple” would be the words of the day. 

“Almost done, milady,” Celia said, pulling the stays behind her. Maribelle sucked a breath in, managing not to cough at the sudden overwhelming pressure around her ribcage only through sheer willpower, and exhaled as gently as she could at Celia’s “Done, milady.”

“Thank you,” she said breathlessly. “You are dismissed.”

“Milady,” Celia began uncertainly, “shall I have tea prepared for you when you return?”

“No. I imagine I shall be back rather far after tea.” Maribelle nodded again at Celia, pressing her lips together in slight irritation. “Please, leave me.”

“Of course, milady.” Celia curtsied quickly and scampered out of the room, shutting the door with a snap behind her. 

Maribelle frowned at the noise, but ignored it in favor of walking to her polished glass mirror and surveying herself, turning both ways and patting down the delicate material. The dress fit her rather well. Apparently, Chrom’s dressmakers could do wonders with a set of numbers given to them a mere week ago – the dress fit as though they had stitched it around her, and she would know, having owned dresses fitted to her exactly. 

Her curls were perfect, done by herself early this morning, her nose was powdered, and her normal bows had been left aside as brides did not wear pink. She had donned elbow-high gloves, fitted with tiny pearls for buttons. And yet when she looked in the mirror, somehow, she still saw the seven-year-old whom Lissa had saved from many a young court girl’s mocking words playing dress-up in yards of white lace discarded from her mother’s trousseau.

“Maribelle?” 

She straightened, recognizing the voice beyond the door that led into the corridor, met her own eyes in the mirror, and quickly maneuvered around the room as the door opened. “Good day, Chrom.”

He nodded, his normal outfit cleanly pressed and his armor polished to a sheen that Maribelle could instantly recognize as Frederick’s handiwork. “Yes. Good morning, Maribelle.” 

“Shall we proceed?” she asked, pulling her lips into a smile to distract herself from her clenched hands that itched for something to hold. 

He nodded, coughed, and waved a hand in her direction, not quite meeting her eyes. “It becomes you.”

“Oh.” She looked down at the dress, noticing again the tiny seed pearls stitched on, costing certainly upwards of a smaller duchy’s fortunes. When she looked back up at him, he was still avoiding her eyes. “Thank you, milord.” 

“Not at all.” He coughed again, and she resisted the urge to frown. A prince – an exalt – should not have such a nervous habit. “Shall we, then?” 

“Of course.” She swept out into the corridor and nodded at Frederick, who was standing further down the corridor alongside several indistinguishable castle guards, in a display of confidence before halting when a hand caught her arm. She instantly realized it was Chrom, ungloved, his hand warm against her skin. She turned.

“Wait – this is for you.” He held out a handful of whitish lace that Maribelle instantly recognized as a veil, far too delicately constructed to be bunched in the roughly folded mess he was holding. Chrom met her eyes, and then looked at the veil. “It was my mother’s.”

His mother’s. Maribelle realized now why the lace was slightly yellowed. “Why, I would be flattered to wear it. Thank you.” 

She held both hands out and accepted it, unraveling the gossamer threads into a laced circle, far wider in all directions than she had initially imagined, fixing any small snags with a gentle tug. Holding it in front of her, she surveyed it and debated exactly how to drape it over herself without mussing any of her curls. 

Chrom evidently took her pause as confusion. “Here, let me.” Without asking, he pulled the material from her fingers, snapped it out above her head and carefully lowered it so a white haze settled over her vision. 

She quickly patted it down, fidgeting with the edges of the lace. “It is even, yes?” 

“Yes.” He quickly contradicted himself by pulling the right side of it further down, but then stepped back. “Yes. It looks well.” She took a steadying breath and curled her lips once more into a smile. Her mother had once said a smile was both a lady’s sword and shield, and Maribelle didn’t intend to meet Ylisse unarmed. “Well, then, Chrom. Shall we meet your kingdom?” He nodded slowly, the image slightly fuzzy through the veil. “Whenever you are ready.”

“A lady is always prepared,” she said, biting off an instinctual ‘milord.’ “Your people await.”

“Of course.” He held out his arm and Maribelle calmly took it, her cheek nearly level with his Brand. His heart was beating quickly – she could feel his pulse run through his arm though they were touching only barely – and then she wondered if what she felt was only her own blood running through her veins, so strong that seemed to come from outside of her. 

“Tell the heralds we’re coming,” Chrom said, his voice directed to one of the guards, who saluted and hurried away. Frederick and the rest of the guards respectfully lowered their gaze as the two passed them by, and Maribelle set her chin a tick higher as her pulse climbed. 

They proceeded down the long hallway away from their respective rooms to another long passageway that Maribelle knew from her childhood hide-and-seek with Lissa led to a balcony outside the castle. The familiar clink of armor followed at a deferential distance behind them, 

“Many people came, you know.” Chrom’s voice came from above her and she looked up at him to see him facing directly forward. “Frederick tells me that hundreds arrived each hour yesterday. They’ve been pressing to come in since early this morning.”

“I suppose it’s a welcome distraction,” she said levelly. “They have nothing better to do, most likely, and the viewing is free. The rabble always wishes to see their betters.”

“I don’t know if ‘betters’ is quite the right word.” Chrom’s shoulder moved slightly as though to flick away his cape and she ducked her head away instinctually. “I should think anyone would look forward to something more joyous after the Plegian Campaign.” Maribelle’s lips thinned and she cast a worried glance above her, thoughts turning to Emmeryn. Chrom seemed no worse for the wear, but she quickly moved on. “What I don’t understand is how you are letting them in the castle courtyard. You will have to allocate money to restoring it afterwards – so many people in such a small space, I would not wonder if fights broke out.” 

“Surely you, of all people, understand that everyone pushes for tradition?” Chrom looked down at her, and Maribelle met his eyes, nodding slowly. “Besides, Frederick the Wary personally assured me that we will have enough guards around the courtyard to stop a Feroxi battalion, so you needn’t worry about fights.” 

“Hm.” Maribelle smiled. “I must say, it is nice to have things working so smoothly.” 

“What?” Chrom’s brow furrowed. “What do you mean?”

“Oh, you can be sure that my family does run our household very smoothly, but, truly, with a steward like Frederick alongside you, everything certainly carries on with great ease.” 

Chrom made a noise rather comparable to a choking cat, and then covered his mouth with his hand.

“Milady, I am not a steward.” She started, and both Chrom and herself turned so quickly they released arms. Frederick was frowning at her with an expression that surely he only gave his enemies, and she had not realized he was so close behind them beforehand. “I am a knight.”

“Well, of course,” she amended, reading his expression, “but it is a high compliment! It is so hard to find a capable steward.” 

“Yes, Frederick, she’s quite right. Very difficult to find a steward of your quality.” Chrom’s grin had twisted slightly. Frederick made a nose between a cough and a grunt, but before he could respond, Chrom had ahold of her arm again and was walking down the corridor once again.

“Ah, I thought he was one,” Maribelle nodded, pleased with herself. “Truly, he needs to train all your staff. He could give my maid some lessons.” 

Chrom’s arm was shaking slightly, and Maribelle looked up to see him biting his bottom lip to avoid grinning fully. She frowned. “What?” 

“Nothing.” He grinned at her, and Maribelle was powerfully reminded of seeing him at age fifteen, when she was still twelve and High Romance reigned supreme in her and Lissa’s shared, tattered novels, and for half a second she had blushed at seeing him. She cleared her throat and adjusted her gloves, careful to avoid touching his arm wherever she did not have to.

“Here we are.” Chrom halted, and Maribelle surveyed the two doors that stood between them and all of the people who had journeyed to see them – to see her. Two guards, one for each door, stood with hands on their respective door handles, ready to open them at the slightest command. She fought the urge to swallow nervously and checked to make sure her smile was in place.

“Your people await.” She waved imperiously at the doors. 

“They’re yours too, now.” Chrom smiled slightly at her again, and Maribelle felt her smile relax into something more genuine. Her people. That sounded quite marvelous. Hers to command, and fix up into a more respectable people, one worthy of admiration all over the world, with laws equal and just. 

She straightened her shoulders into more impressive posture. “Then I wish to see them.”

“See them you will.” Chrom nodded to the guards and, as one, they threw open the doors. Blinding light hit her veil and Maribelle instinctively shut her eyes against the bright whiteness, but continued slowly walking, relying on Chrom’s arm to direct her. However, the roar of the crowd was even more overwhelming, perhaps, than the light. Hundreds of voices, in one unanimous clamor, were shouting inaudible words, perhaps their names, perhaps claiming fealty to the exalt, perhaps merely wordless shouts.

Above it all, trumpets sounded, their tinny noise loud and silvery above the roar. Maribelle squinted out and glimpsed the courtyard in front of her, the balcony edge still a few paces in front of them – or, perhaps, more accurately, she saw the mass of people that had overwhelmed the courtyard and made any distinguishable feature impossible to see. 

“Exalt Chrom of the Halidom Ylisse and his newly-wedded Queen Maribelle of the House of Themis!” A loud herald's voice behind them shouted their royal announcement to the crowd and the loud cheers it incited overwhelmed her.

Chrom moved them closer to the balcony edge until he could rest his hand upon the stone edge of it. She bit back words about enemy archers and followed him, trying to open her eyes wider, straining through the veil to make out the faces that swarmed below them, the hands that reached up to them also somewhat blocking her view. They stood wordlessly there for a moment. 

Maribelle attempted to see even one face clearly, as though this would allow her to connect with these nameless hordes, allow her to understand them more succinctly. The air was crisp against her face, pulling at her veil slightly so it rippled around her, and made it difficult to catch a glimpse of any specific feature, rendering faces into blurs and clothing into blocks of color. Their yells, indistinguishable and plentiful, were loud, joyous, and it caused heat to rise to her face and eyes. The thousands of people below them relied on them. They would rely on Chrom to lead them forward, and they would rely on her to set a standard for propriety and – though they knew it not, yet – stand as a stalwart defender of their laws. She knew she must. Each blur of a face was a person who deserved a chance to live a just life. 

And each blur of a face was a person who believed her to love her husband as whole-heartedly as they did. Maribelle looked at Chrom. His eyes were proud, his shoulders set far back so his cape flicked back and forth in the wind behind them both. He was not a bad choice – and she knew those words to an understatement, she knew them since her mother had explained the concept of marriage (“It’s when two people make a sort of a deal to live with one another in exchange for benefits”) and the perfect man (“Make sure he is both wealthy and a gentleman. And I mean that in both ways, dear: he must act as a gentleman does and he must be of a high rank”). As she watched, he raised a hand in greeting to the crowd and the roars grew to a deafening level. 

He turned to her, hand still aloft, and his mouth moved, though his words caught in the blaze of noise and snuffed out. She shook her head slightly, and in response he cocked his head at his raised arm and looked pointedly at the arm she wasn’t holding onto him with. Hesitating, Maribelle looked out at the crowd once again and, taking a breath, she raised her arm as well, waving delicately to the assembled crowd. If anything else, the noise grew even more, and, as though on cue, a window opened above them with an unfortunate screech that was audible above the roar and maids began to toss colored paper confetti down, the flakes larger than normal and carrying easily in the wind.

Several seconds later, she felt her veil rustle and turned to see Chrom bending closer to her ear, releasing her arm as he did so. “Shall we go?”

She nodded, and he raised his hand to the trumpeters before acknowledging the crowds once more with another wave and turning briskly back to the doorway. Maribelle stood for a second more out at the balcony’s edge, drinking in the waves of noise and color. This was a kingdom, a people, she now had a stake in. She could change their lives. The very thought caused a ripple of goosebumps to rise under her gloves. She raised a hand again in regal acknowledgment of the people in front of her.  
She would not let them down.


	4. The Court

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Maribelle is now Queen of Ylisse, but she’s always been the Queen of Sass.

  
  
Maribelle was going to let her people down. She pressed a glove into the pressure point directly above her right eyebrow in an attempt to avoid strangling the woman talking to her and cast a look to the side at her husband, who was engaged in a rousing discussion of politics with one of his royal advisors. Even after spending a lifetime in noble houses, and half her life in the Ylissean court, Maribelle still managed to surprise herself with how violently she loathed the court itself. 

“Truly, it was such a surprise, dear!” the woman tittered, hair elaborately pulled back in what Maribelle knew was the most recent style. “You really should have at least mentioned you were courting Lord Chrom.” 

Maribelle knew exactly who this woman was (heiress to another duchy in the south of Ylisse), what she wanted (Chrom), and how much the woman wished to rip the hair from her head (enough to display her blonde curls as a war memento). “Chrom and I decided to keep our courtship secret. He has so much going on, you know. We did not wish to place undue pressure upon him – surely that is something no one wishes for!”

“Of course,” the duchess-to-be agreed, smiling without showing her teeth. “But truly, such scandal! One would almost think something rather salacious had occurred.” She pursed her lips pointedly at Maribelle’s stomach.

Maribelle’s gloves tightened uncomfortably as she curled her hands into fists. “Well! I shall certainly pass along your sentiments to my dear husband. I’m sure he would love to know who the court gossips are.”

The woman scoffed, but turned it into a polite cough as Chrom turned to face them. “Milord Chrom!” 

“Yes. Good day,” he nodded cursorily at her. Maribelle knew the nod of a commander to a soldier he didn’t know the name of, and didn’t bother to bite a smile back at the petty victory. Chrom blinked at her smile but returned it hesitantly. “Maribelle, have you met Lord Crutchby?”

Maribelle turned slowly to face the advisor Chrom had been speaking to seconds before and nodded regally at him. “I’m afraid I have not had the pleasure yet.”

“The pleasure is mine,” the man responded, his wrinkled face smiling. Maribelle wondered exactly how much this particular man had been instrumental in forcing Chrom into marriage. Judging by the evaluating look in his eye, he had been one of the top contenders for pushiest.

Chrom waved a hand at him. “We were just discussing –”

“Discussing how excited all of the exalt’s advisors were to hear of this propitious marriage,” the man interjected, “and how exactly we wished to advise you proceed.”

Maribelle blinked slowly but didn’t let her smile falter. Chrom’s sudden twitch at her side didn’t escape her. “Oh?”

“Yes. Quite.” The man nodded several times as though agreeing with a particularly intelligent response. “We are all pleased the Duchy of Themis will be proceeding to become the exalt’s property once your father passes away.”

Maribelle’s expression froze in place. “Really? I was not aware my father had made such arrangements.”

“Well, surely they will be arranged. You are his heir, are you not?” The man continued to smile widely. “Your dowry will be arriving soon, of course, but you cannot expect to have anyone else run the land for you.”

“I expect no such thing!” Maribelle raised her chin slightly and fixed the man with a stare that evaded being a glare, exactly, but was certainly enough to make any man pause. “My father has distant heirs other than myself. I am almost certain there are no plans to cede the Duchy to anyone.”

“Oh, I’m sure he has them, dear. Also – I know the Royal Treasury would like to know – what, exactly, will your dowry be entailing?” 

“I’m sorry, Lord Crutchby. I must be mistaken. I thought I heard you refer to me as ‘dear’ when that would be an entirely inappropriate way to address your queen!” Maribelle laughed, eyes still skewering the man to the spot. “Truly! It would almost be scandalous.”

The man paused, smile still fixed in place. “Ah, milady, forgive me. I spoke out of turn. You remind me of a niece of mine, and I merely –”

“Furthermore!” Maribelle pressed on smoothly, “I believe the arrangements of my dowry are private, between my father and my husband, to be revealed when they deem it proper.”

“That would be normal procedure in any other marriage, to be sure.” The advisor smiled so widely that Maribelle could see the yellowing teeth his front two teeth attempted to conceal. “However, as this is a marriage of the state, you see, much normal procedure has been circumvented and we believe –”

“Maribelle is right.” A white-gloved hand fell on her shoulder and Maribelle restrained herself from contracting slightly, feigning that this motion was an everyday occurrence between husband and wife. “I have contacted her father and we are arranging the amount.”

Another voice suddenly chimed in and the trio made a half turn to acknowledge the intruder before Maribelle, recognizing him as the head of the Royal Treasury, couldn’t stop a frown from creasing her face. “Lord Chrom, precedent indicates that the Treasury has always been a party in determining a royal marriage’s dowry.” 

Chrom’s eyes narrowed, and his hand tightened on Maribelle’s shoulder. “I am fully capable of resolving it. Myself.” 

The two men paused slightly and Maribelle once more pulled her expression into one of regal irritation. “Worry not, milords. I am my father’s only daughter, and he is a generous man, one who certainly understands the needs of this country. Be assured that the amount will be to your liking.” 

“Yes,” Chrom added shortly. “Good day.” He moved his hand to her waist and pushed her past the men without a backwards glance. Only when they had come to the other side of a large group of court ladies, whose burgeoning dresses provided the necessary cover to temporarily camouflage them, did he remove his hand. 

“Well!” Maribelle coughed delicately, smoothing out the front of her wrinkle-free dress once again. “’Tis unfortunate that even the highest levels seem to be populated with barbarians dressed in gentleman’s clothing!”

“I am sorry you had to hear that,” Chrom said. She met his eyes to be confronted with sincerity as naïve and bright as Lissa’s. Feeling herself flush slightly, Maribelle assured herself it was due to residual irritation at the lord’s misconduct. “I didn’t realize he would be so…”

“Uncouth?” Maribelle flicked a curl over her shoulder, wishing to flick the business away entirely. “Enough. We shall speak no more of it.”

“Agreed.” He grinned faintly. “Perhaps we should leave soon. I believe our court appearance has dragged on long enough.”

She eyed the group of court ladies, seeing in each a potential conversationalist as acidic as the previous duchess. “I would be most thankful if we did.” 

“Then it’s settled. I will go find Frederick and we will be done with this madness.” Chrom ran a hand through his hair, causing his fringe to stick up momentarily. “If you need someone, yell.”

“I thank you, but I can handle myself.” 

He paused, but nodded briskly. “Of course.” Maribelle watched him turn around and braced herself for the inevitable stream of undeniably beautiful court ladies, each who knew just as well as Maribelle that they had once been viable contenders for Chrom’s hand. Unconsciously she knew that each furious court lady would have been a better match for Chrom than herself – one who would have loved him, swooned for him, wore this wedding dress with pride, and blushed prettily at every word from an advisor, promising their coffers all her father could give.

“Maribelle!” The young male voice from behind her was recognizable – too high-pitched to be a proper man of the court, but still old enough to wear the robes of a mage. Maribelle felt a sudden rush of affection for her fellow noble, who was unknowingly saving her from a far more uncomfortable conversation.

“Good day, Ricken,” she smiled. He was dressed formally, for once not carrying a large tome alongside him, and his eyes widened when he saw her.

“Wow. So it really is true.” He spent a few seconds studying her, mouth pursed on the tip of turning into a frown, eyebrows curving upwards. Maribelle was uncomfortably reminded of a kicked puppy (at least, what she imagined one would look like, having happily never seen one). She coughed politely and waited for his attention to return. “Did you think it was a lie?” “Well, I mean…” He pushed down on the curl of hair that always seemed to escape from the rest of his hair and attempted a smile awkwardly, looking to the side. “I guess no one saw it coming.”

“Sometimes things happen!” She tittered a laugh afterwards, as though to make the words more convincing. “Besides, Chrom and I have known each other since we were children.”

“Yeah.” Ricken’s smile had faded into something closer to a grimace. “Well, everyone’s really… surprised.”

“I suppose they must be,” Maribelle nodded bracingly, avoiding the thought of Sumia’s face, which immediately rose to mind. “However, times continue to change, and we must be ready for them when they come!” 

“Yeah.” Ricken was staring at her shoes now. “Yeah, you’re probably right.” 

“Oh, pish! Ricken, what’s the matter?” She took a step closer and surveyed his face. “Are you all right?”

“Yes!” He straightened suddenly. “I’m completely fine. Um. Yes.” 

She raised her eyebrows. “Well, that is fortunate, then.”

“Yes.” He made a strange coughing noise that she supposed was trying to be a laugh. “Anyways, are you going to tell this to the other Shepherds? In person, I mean? They all know by now. I mean, that’s obvious, but…”

“We plan to visit the encampment.” They had discussed this briefly, when she had gone to see Chrom once with a letter from her father. Chrom had mentioned visiting the Shepherds – at least, those still in Ylisse - and had waved a hand at his ring in lieu of explanation. In Maribelle’s opinion, everyone who needed to know already knew, but such procedures were made to be followed.

Her eyes suddenly lit upon the small family crest Ricken was wearing. “Oh – forgive me, where are my manners? How is your family, Ricken?” 

“Well, they’re doing okay, I think.” His already uncomfortable expression worsened. “You know we’ve been having… Well, basically we’re dead broke.”

She frowned. “Ricken, please, it pains me to see you so upset. Cease looking so downtrodden! I know you are in a difficult position, but that does in no way reflect upon you or your family in a negative way.”

“You think so?” He brightened slightly, and Maribelle smiled back at him.

“Truly! I know so. You prove yourself more than noble through your service in the Shepherds, and your family is all cut from the same cloth.”

He laughed. “Thanks, Maribelle.”

“Bite your tongue! Any noble should say the same.” 

“Right.” He bit his lip, and then looked at her dress again. “Well, now you’re not just any noble.”

She smiled again, thinking of her mother’s armor and sword saying. “Yes. Well, that makes me no different of a person, Ricken.”

“Yeah.” Ricken’s posture was wilting again. Maribelle restrained the urge to hold him upright, but didn’t need to as he suddenly straightened again, looking past her shoulder. “Captain Chrom!” 

“Oh, hello, Ricken.” Chrom cast a quick glance at Maribelle and then back to the mage. “Enjoying yourself?”

“Um, yes.” Ricken grinned queasily. He looked several times between the two of them, each time his smile fading slightly further. “Are you?”

Chrom grimaced. “I’m trying.” 

“Yeah.” Ricken nodded a few times, eyes fixed to the stone floor below them. “I understand, Captain.”

“How are your studies going?” Maribelle offered.

“They’re okay.” The boy was still avoiding her eyes. Maribelle eyed the stone he was evidently fixed upon and wasn’t surprised to find it entirely unremarkable. A pause in the conversation stretched on, long enough that Maribelle began to adjust her gloves. Chrom shifted beside her, his shoulder plate clinking.

“Well. I think we’re going to go, Ricken,” Chrom began. “Stay safe in the meantime.”

“Yeah. You too, Captain Chrom.” He flicked his gaze up to briefly meet their eyes, and then turned and disappeared in the crowd.

Chrom cleared his throat. “That was certainly… He was quiet.”

Maribelle had a feeling she knew why he was so discomforted, and resisted fiddling with her wedding ring as though doing so would remove the thought of it from Ricken’s mind. “I suppose we cannot always find people at their best.”

“Yes.” He looked to their left and she followed his gaze to see Frederick silently nodding at something Lissa was saying. “I think it’s time we left.”

She acutely felt the stinging prick of glares at her back. “I couldn’t possibly agree more.” 

They were halfway to Frederick, the door, and blessed freedom when – “Lord Chrom!” Maribelle shut her eyes. So close. 

The man in question gritted his teeth, but turned around swiftly. “What is it?”

“Ah, good. Lady Maribelle is here as well.” The golden rings around this lord’s hands were thick, and his knuckles seemed to have expanded around them. He was deep-seated nobility – she recognized it from the unconscious perfect posture.

“Good day, milord,” she smiled, wishing for nothing more than her parasol so she could have an excuse to accidentally spike his foot with the tip of it.

“And it is, indeed!” the man cried, waving a hand in the air. The gesture made his golden rings glint in the light, and Maribelle’s smile turned grim as she recognized the pageantry – her father made the same gesture each time he wished to intimidate a lesser noble. “Hopefully the day finds you both well.”

“Yes.” Chrom wasn’t bothering to be polite anymore. His right hand was straying to Falchion, as though gripping the sword’s handle would calm his irritation.

“Well, milord, I was wondering if I could speak to you both on behalf of all of the royal advisors?” Despite the fact that his words drew up in pitch as though the statement was a question, there was no question it was nearly an order.

“Go ahead,” Chrom said. “We are leaving, so please, if you could make this quick.”

“Of course.” The man’s smile was as oily as his hair. “This, of course, is a rather private matter…” He let his words trail off and his eyes flick to a pillar somewhat to the side of the room. 

Chrom’s hand was fixed around Falchion’s handle now. “Here is fine. If it’s private, we can talk quietly.”

“Whatever milord wishes.” The man coughed delicately and lowered his voice. “All of the advisors are very pleased about this marriage, milord - and milady, of course. As you well know, there is no direct heir to the throne, at the moment, if something was to occur. As such, as the spokesperson for the royal advisors, along with our good Lord Crutchby, we were hoping to – perhaps – encourage the idea of an heir.”

Maribelle determinedly kept smiling, although a tendon in Chrom’s neck was starting to show.

“Of course, such matters are normally kept private. However, as this development entails the future of the kingdom… We would wish to be kept updated as to your progress.” 

Maribelle almost couldn’t stop the laugh that bubbled up behind her lips from escaping. It was as though the advisors wished for a long tally of days where procreation had been attempted. The thought was too ridiculous to stomach. If she didn’t find it funny, her tightened stays would be forcing her to retch.

Chrom, on the other hand, was absolutely seething. “I’m sorry, no.” He grabbed Maribelle’s arm in a decidedly un-gentlemanly fashion and began to pull her away. 

“Lord Chrom,” the man attempted from behind them. “Lord Chrom!” 

“Gods!” Chrom was muttering, half to himself, and he didn’t seem to realize his grip on her upper arm was vise-like. Maribelle could see Lissa’s expression change when she glimpsed her brother’s anger through the crowd, and felt her stomach twist. “I can’t believe them.” 

“Maribelle? Chrom? Are you guys okay?” Lissa attempted to put a hand on Chrom’s shoulder plate as the couple approached, but he brushed her off.

“We’re fine. Frederick. We’re leaving.” The great knight nodded briskly.

“Chrom, I must ask you to unhand me,” Maribelle warned sharply. “I can barely feel my forearm.”

“What?” He turned to face her, eyes widening as she attempted to pull her arm away. He immediately let go of her. “Gods. I’m so sorry. I didn’t realize.” 

She shook out her arm and rubbed at it. “I have had worse, but I would rather not suffer it at the hands of my husband.”

He grimaced. “Truly, Maribelle, I didn’t realize.” 

“Oh my gosh! What even happened?” Lissa’s expression was now accusatory, and Chrom raised a hand as though to deflect the blame. 

“Lissa, I’ll explain later. We should leave now.” Lissa looked dangerously close to retorting again, so Maribelle quickly took her arm. “Relax, darling. As we both know, sometimes people are just insensitive! Truly. Tis nothing we cannot handle.”

“Urgh. Fine. I expect an explanation, though.” Lissa narrowed her eyes at the two of them. “You too, Maribelle.” 

“And you get one you shall!” She smiled sunnily, attempting to redirect the conversation. “Let us leave now, shall we?”

“Yes.” Chrom rubbed his temples, one hand once more gripping Falchion. “Now.”


	5. The Argument

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Maybe I just love torturing Maribelle. I’m not sure. AKA the one in which Lissa avoids getting ‘the talk,’ and the one where you realize Chrom avoids uncomfortable situations like the plague.

  
  
She paused right outside the door, took a breath. Two muted voices were echoing out of the crack underneath the door, quiet and measured. Though she knew what they were saying, things about Plegia, Regna Ferox, the number of soldiers in the royal armies, Maribelle couldn’t make out a word. 

It was late. The fires in the sconces around her were burning low, practically embers instead of the crackling flames they had been earlier in the evening. No servant had bothered to walk all the way to the maps room to relight them, as only one person now lived nearby to the maps room, and she frequently stayed up too late for the servants to continually keep the flames high.

Five days had passed since their official presentation to Ylisse and the royal court. Maribelle had mostly been dealing with visits to many different noble houses, paying them compliments and exchanging pleasantries with practiced ease while leaving her wedding ring in view of all in the room, conspicuously visible against her white gloves. These court visits were nothing but glorified small talk and an excuse to demolish any remaining thought of Chrom’s availability, which Maribelle had no doubt had remained delightfully untarnished in several scheming mother’s minds until her arrival. 

Her husband had dodged all of these meetings with excuses of meetings with advisors, treaties to debate, and training sessions to slog through, but Maribelle had noticed his grimace each time she had stopped by his office to mention she would be visiting these royal houses today, and would he have the time to accompany her?

She supposed, at least, she was somewhat lucky he was so easy to read. Marrying a man who lied with fluency would have given her many different difficulties. Perhaps a ridiculously constructed denial was easier to deal with than sweet nothings and well-written falsities.

However, this tendency to be honest was bothering her in another way. Five days had passed, and yet she had still not confronted him about the advisor’s words, merely for fear of his response.

Maribelle shut her eyes, recalling Lissa’s reaction to the news. Lissa had received her explanation in total, uncharacteristic silence, over orange peel tea that had grown steadily cool. And then she had exploded.

“Ugh! Gross!” She tossed her cup back and drank the tea in about two gulps, and then shook her head, mouth pinched together. “Ew!” 

“Darling!” Maribelle had pulled her over, examined her and the cup for signs of contamination. “Are you all right?” 

“No!” Lissa had shivered, pulling several faces. “I can’t believe it! That’s just so beyond disgusting, Maribelle.” 

“I thought you liked it,” she had tried, frowning at her own cup as though it was the offender. “We had this together only a few weeks ago.”

“No! That’s not what I’m talking about, Maribelle.” She’d dropped the cup unceremoniously on the carpet and gripped Maribelle’s shoulders. “I mean what you just said! What – ew! – that creepy advisor guy said. To you! And Chrom!” 

She had made another face, this one closer to a retch than the last, releasing Maribelle’s shoulders. “Oh, gods, that’s just gross. I can’t believe I’m even talking about this with you!”

“Darling, it’s truly barbaric, I agree, but we shouldn’t make faces like that, lest they stay that way.” She had tapped Lissa’s nose lightly to emphasize her point, and to ignore the prick of discomfort that had settled in her stomach at repeating the advisor’s words.

Lissa hadn’t bothered to change her expression. “I mean, Maribelle, we’ve already gone through all this. You’re married to Chrom and I’m super happy you’re my sister.”

Maribelle had been unable to keep her lips from blooming into a smile. “As am I.” 

“Yeah, but…” She straightened, pigtails bouncing slightly. Maribelle had stilled at her expression, so serious and unlike her darling Lissa. “Honestly, Maribelle? That’s about all that I like about it. Look, I’m not being rude, I promise. I want you both to be happy together. But you’re not.” 

She had avoided looking at the princess who was now her sister, eyes straying to her cup again. 

“Maribelle! Look at me! Please.” Lissa had been insistent; she had pulled at the edge of Maribelle’s glove in an effort to make her turn back to the conversation. “I know you don’t want to hear this! I don’t want to say this.” 

“Lissa, dear, it’s not about being happy.” Maribelle had thought of her parents’ marriage, the letters they had both sent to her after she had written to announce her engagement. “Your brother – Chrom knows it too.”

“Ugh! Well, it should be.” Lissa’s bottom lip had begun to jut out, her habit of pouting, established long into her childhood, beginning to resurface. “I just… I mean, one, it’s horrifying to even think about – you know – I mean… Don’t make me say it, Maribelle.”

Maribelle had nodded bracingly. “What occurs in a married couple’s bedchambers.”

“Don’t!” Lissa had thrown her hand up in a gesture so violent she had nearly knocked Maribelle’s chin backwards. “Don’t! That’s my brother you’re talking about. Oh, gods. Let’s just stop.”

“I agree. Let’s end this sorry business and move to more refreshing matters –”

“No, wait! I didn’t get to point two yet.” Lissa had faced her, again regaining a more serious expression, one that reminded Maribelle uncannily of her Emmeryn. “Two, is that I think that Chrom is just… uncomfortable around you.”

Maribelle had instantly frowned. 

“Look, again, I don’t want to make you upset! I just think… I mean, can’t you guys just… give this up?” Lissa had waved circles in the air as though to brush the vows away with the air.

“This is a royal marriage.” Maribelle had set her cup down on her saucer and leveled the hem of her dress with a glare. “It is not something that is easily discarded, especially now that it has been proclaimed to all those in the kingdom, and many in the surrounding ones.”

“I mean, Chrom is the exalt. He could probably –”

“Lissa.” Maribelle had turned her stare to the girl next to her. “I am aware of my duties as a wife. Your brother is – I am sure – aware of his duties as a husband. We are both aware that this marriage is something that we can’t dismiss.”

Lissa had looked away at her fallen cup, biting her lip. Maribelle sighed. “Please, Lissa, darling. I am so sorry this makes you unhappy, truly. I despise seeing you upset. And I know your brother would not be happy either, to have you feel like you do about our marriage. You seemed happy at the wedding. Was it an act?”

“It’s barely a marriage!” Lissa had burst out, and Maribelle’s mouth had dropped open. The princess had immediately covered her mouth with her hands before frantically spewing out sentences and apologies. 

“Oh my gods, Maribelle. Look, I know that sounded horrible and wait, just let me explain. I mean, I just want you to be happy! Like, do you remember all the stories and the knight is supposed to court the maiden and give her roses and all of that, and then they’re supposed to kiss and be happy together, and like, talk together, and he’s supposed to ignore his duties to go see her and everything? That’s what I want for you! And I want you to have some person who’s super excited to see you every day, because you’re someone people should get excited to see! And you two don’t – you barely talk to each other!” Monologue finished, she had sat panting, winded at the force of her words.

Maribelle nodded slowly. “And you wish the same for him, correct?”

“Of course!” She nodded emphatically, and then paused, biting her lip again. “And it would be wonderful if you two really did like each other like that. Like, loved each other. Then I would be so happy. I love having you as my real sister, and I mean, I could get over all the gross stuff if you two really did want this marriage.”

“I see.” Maribelle was unable to keep her poise entirely, unable to raise her eyes from her dress. “I am sorry, Lissa.”

“Oh, gods. I made you upset.” Lissa had taken her hands, trying to pull her attention up to her again, her eyes bright with the promise of impending tears. “Oh, Maribelle. Please forgive me. Gods. Thank goodness you’re the queen of Ylisse and not me. I’d make every single lord and lady hate me just by speaking. I’m so not a princess.”

“Bite your tongue!” Maribelle had seized upon this. “You’re every inch a princess! Look at you! Every single part of you is worth more than any court lady, worth more than me! You are a descendant of the royal house of Ylisse, and if anyone questions that, they have my parasol to answer to.”

“Aw.” Lissa had smiled, edges of her eyes watery. “What would I do without you?” 

“Worry not, darling. I don’t plan on leaving any time soon.” She had smiled, pulled at one of Lissa’s curls that threatened to escape her pigtails. “Besides. It’s only been a few weeks. All marriages take time and effort, and I promise you – I leave no job half-finished.”

“I know you don’t.” Lissa had smiled, and that had been that.

Explanation finished, the two had continued to chatter for a long time afterwards, both of them carefully avoiding Chrom and Ylisse with as wide of a berth as they could give them. Lissa’s unending cheer was a deep relief after their previous conversation, and it was far past her normal retiring hour when they had bid each other goodnight. 

However, the conversation had solidified the thought in Maribelle’s mind – she needed to speak to Chrom. Hence the reason she was standing in front of the maps room in what was close to the dead of night.

The murmur of voices behind the door had softened considerably, and she took the moment as a fortuitous lull in conversation and raised her hand, knocking on the door thrice. Any noise that could have been considered part of the near-silent conversation was now utterly silenced.

“Who’s there?” Robin’s voice, high and clear, demanded.

“It is I,” Maribelle responded, confident that the pale-haired strategist had memorized her voice along with hundreds of stratagems to best use her curative tomes.

There was a rustle of parchment, of cloth, and a clink of armor. The door swung open, and Maribelle suddenly found herself face-to-face with Chrom. “Maribelle? What are you doing up so late?”

“Chrom. Good! I was told I could probably find you here.” Maribelle smiled at him, and then glanced around his side to see Robin shifting some maps back and forth on the table. “Good evening, Robin.”

“Hello, Maribelle.” Robin smiled tightly at her, looking only briefly up from the table. “Here for some late night strategy discussion?”

“I was just here to speak to Chrom.” Maribelle smiled at her husband and looked indicatively out into the corridor. Chrom didn’t budge from the doorway, instead looking to the side as though to try to see Robin from the periphery of his vision.

“I see. Why don’t we call it a night, then, Chrom? It’s late already, I think.” Robin turned away to a desk behind her, towards a board set with pieces carved with into rough likenesses of the Shepherds and began to poke at it, seemingly at random. “We can continue our discussion another time.”

“But –” Chrom half-turned towards Robin before cutting himself off. “All right. Good night, then.” 

“Good night.” Robin didn’t bother to turn around or raise a hand in dismissal, but Chrom still paused slightly before shutting the door and turning to Maribelle.

“What is it that you needed?” he asked, his expression slightly uneasy. “Is everything all right?”

“Yes.” Maribelle paused and rethought her words. “Well, yes, but we need to speak about something. Would you mind joining me in my rooms? The discussion should be somewhat private.”

“Is it Lissa? Did something happen?” Far from being convinced, Chrom only looked more agitated, looking at the end of the hallway as though expecting Lissa to appear bearing a fatal wound.

“Perish the thought!” Maribelle frowned, and then grasped Chrom’s arm and began to walk him down the hallway. Apart from a slight resistance at first, he began to keep pace with her. “No. If something had happened to Lissa, to be entirely honest, I would have sent a courier and stayed with her myself.”

“Heh.” The edges of his mouth twitched upwards. “Well, I suppose she’s lucky to have someone like you.”

Maribelle looked to the side. “It is I who is lucky to know her.” 

The conversation broke for a second and Maribelle thought again about the conversation she had earlier in the day with Lissa. “She was the one who… Well, I suppose that’s not entirely true.”

“What?” Chrom shifted his arm slightly; Maribelle realized she was still holding onto him and released him immediately. 

“Let us wait until we’re in private.” Maribelle eyed a guard several meters away still, who immediately dropped into a respectful bow upon seeing them. 

Chrom glanced at the man as well. “What, exactly, is so private?” 

Maribelle waited until they had passed the guard. “Please, Chrom. I do not come to you while you are busy for no reason, I assure you.”

“That’s true.” Chrom was now looking at his rooms, now directly in front of them, although still far away. “Are you sure this conversation cannot be held in my office?”

“I would prefer the privacy of my rooms.” Maribelle tightened her hold on her parasol and waited until they had reached, after some time, the pair of guards who were currently standing wait outside her room. 

The two men straightened upon seeing the two of them, and both of them bowed quickly, although not fast enough to prevent her from seeing their looks of surprise at Chrom’s appearance. “Milord, milady,” they stated.

Maribelle brushed past them. “Thank you, gentlemen. If you will excuse us.” She opened the door and held it open for Chrom to enter. 

Instead of entering, Chrom stood just outside the door, mouth slightly open as though to say something. Maribelle made another gesture, as though to sweep him inside the room with her parasol, and, after giving a quick glance to both of the guards, he finally stepped inside.

“Milady – oh, milord!” Celia, stumbled out of the adjoining maid’s room with a look of shock and awe on her face.

Maribelle smiled tightly at the maid, who nearly tripped over herself again at her mistress’s irritated expression. “Celia, please be a dear and go repair one of the dresses my father sent. I believe the green one has acquired a few tears.” 

The maid blinked several times, processing this false information. Clearly, at least, Maribelle thought wryly, the maid had been checking the dresses for any mending work that needed to be done, and she knew the green gown to be perfectly intact. “Oh. Yes. Of course, milady.” 

The maid quickly retreated first into the closet, and then into her room once again, carrying the perfectly undamaged dress with her.

Chrom coughed beside her. “I suppose that’s the maid they assigned you?”

“Oh, what am I doing? Please, sit, Chrom.” Maribelle quickly gestured to her couch. “Yes, that is her. She’s very good at what she does, but - well.” She smiled to indicate the rest of her sentence was perhaps unnecessary. 

“I see.” Chrom was glancing around the room as though seeing it for the first time. His eyebrows were pulled together, and it was becoming clear he was not immediately going to sit down.

Maribelle took a seat on the couch herself and gestured beside her. “Please, Chrom. Sit. This is a conversation that may take some time.” 

Chrom rubbed the back of his neck, ruffling the hairs at his nape, glanced around the room once again, and unbuckled Falchion from his waist, placing it sheathed on the table in front of them before sitting. “All right.” He faced her. “What is it?”

Maribelle met his eyes without blinking, parasol laid across her lap. “We need to speak about your absence.” 

“What?” Chrom’s brow furrowed. “I’ve been in the castle all day.”

“I know.” Maribelle glanced at Falchion’s leather sheath then back to him. “Unfortunately, that is the problem.”

He looked at his sword as well, as though expecting it to give him a hint as to what she meant. “I don’t understand.”

“Chrom, I don’t expect you to join me on all my calls to the royal houses of Ylisse.” Chrom immediately grimaced, and she recognized the knee-jerk reaction of a guilty party who knows of their fault. “However, I think it is going to be a problem if you continue to avoid spending time with me in the future.”

“It’s not you,” Chrom said, still not quite meeting her eyes. “I just don’t enjoy social calls like those.”

“I understand that,” Maribelle said, nodding. “And I’m glad to be able to help you out in some small way, even by maneuvering difficult waters with duchesses who wish you married to their daughters.” 

She ignored his grimace again, held up an open palm to stop him from apologizing on reflex. “To be honest, I did not ask you to come here to critique you about that entire affair, I promise. I wished to speak to you about… well, something more private.”

“Yes?” He met her eyes again. “What is it?”

“It has… to do with what the advisors spoke of, some days ago.” Maribelle dropped her eyes to her parasol and then, thinking of her time in Gangrel’s hands, reassured herself this was far easier. “They mentioned, as I’m sure you remember, wishing for an heir.”

Chrom’s face blanched of all color. 

She pinched her lips together, attempting to thwart the rise of heat to her cheeks that was probably making her flush brightly, and failing miserably. “Yes. What I’m trying to say is: I don’t think they’re entirely wrong.”

Chrom was fixedly looking at a spot on the couch between them. “I am aware that being exalt means that you need an heir. I know that.”

“I should hope so.” Maribelle coughed delicately. “I do not wish to put you in an uncomfortable position, but as such things are required of us, I think we should try to become a little closer. In the long run, I think, it would make things rather easier.”

“You are right.” Chrom looked up at her, finally, and she had to force herself to continue meeting his gaze. “I know that this is important. I don’t – I’m not trying to ignore my duty. I promise you.”

“Thank you.” Maribelle smiled slightly, set her parasol to the side of her on the couch. She was strangely aware of her heart pulsing in her chest, as though it meant to beat through her stays. “Another thing.” 

“Yes?” He was smiling slightly, one side of his mouth pulled up. Her breath caught for a second, and she had to force herself to continue.

“This is perhaps very similar to the previous topic, but,” she had to pause to take a breath, “I am – we have been married for three weeks now, and traditionally – traditionally, a marriage must be consummated.” 

She hadn’t stopped looking at him, and over the course of her words, Chrom had frozen in position, mouth just about to form a grimace but pausing before it was clearly visible on his face. Maribelle was certain the flush on her face had only darkened, but plowed on. “If you are… willing –”

“Maribelle,” Chrom started, something rather close to alarm creeping into his voice. “Stop.” 

She ignored the beginnings of a burn of shame in her gut. “Chrom, listen to me.”

“Maribelle, wait. I can’t do this.” He was inching away from her on the couch, one hand raising up to cover his face, gloved palm facing her like a white flag of surrender. “You don’t understand.”

“Why? This is our duty.” Maribelle could feel the sudden burn of tears behind her eyes, unbidden, and quickly took a shallow breath in an effort to steady herself. “Please. Chrom, what exactly is wrong with this? I’m sure your parents did the same, and mine as well.”

“No. I know. I know.” Chrom stood up, eyeing her with panic. “Maribelle, listen to me for a second.”

“I am listening. Are _you_ listening?” She stood up as well. “This is exactly what your – our – country expects from us. For Naga’s sake!” 

“Maribelle!” She flinched back, his voice suddenly reverting to the voice of a commander, loud and full of brute strength. He paused, held out his hands as though she was going to rush at him. “Maribelle. I can’t do this. I am – I don’t – I can’t do this.”

Taking a full step backwards, as though the blunt end of an ax had driven directly into her, Maribelle pressed her lips together, feeling her eyes wetten. “And why, exactly, is that?”

“I’m – gods, this is all wrong. I can’t do this yet, Maribelle. I – just give me a while.” Chrom picked up Falchion, grasping the straps tightly. “I promise you, I will do this. I will – fulfill my duty. I am Ylisse’s leader. I just… not tonight. Please.”

“Are you in love with someone?” Maribelle mentally catalogued every single girl she knew (far too many to mentally catalogue) and couldn’t come up with a match. “Chrom?”

“That’s not – I’m sorry, Maribelle.” Chrom was edging around the table now. “I shouldn’t have married you, it was unfair to both of us, and I know that, but I – it was something I needed to do, and you came to me, and…”

“Why didn’t you marry her?” Maribelle could barely hear him, the rush of blood in her ears loud and echoing. “Why did you do this at all, then?” 

“No – I’m not – Maribelle, I’m not in love with someone.” He looked her in the eyes this time, and she paused, breathing hard and thin. “I swear it. I just – will you let me get accustomed to this? This isn’t – you’re going on about duty and… I’ll get around to it.” 

“Get around to it?” Maribelle knew her voice was going higher, getting louder, but by this point she did not care. “This isn’t something your royal advisors have given you to sign!”

“But this is just another thing they expect of me!” he burst out, waving his hand that was holding Falchion, narrowly missing another sitting chair with it’s sheath. “And I will do this! All right? Just – can you wait? Please?” 

“You’re making Lissa worry,” Maribelle began, and suddenly stopped, the truth of the words too much. She took a shaking breath, tried to blink carefully so no tears would fall from her eyes. 

He took a deep breath, shutting his eyes, and let it out even slower. “I know. I’m making you upset, too.” 

Maribelle didn’t answer, choosing instead to focus her attention on stopping tears from slipping onto her face.

“I’m going to go. Whatever I say, I think it will make things worse,” Chrom said heavily. “I’ll… I’m sorry.” 

“Good night,” Maribelle said, her words watery. 

She didn’t look up from the table, but she could hear him sigh, even from across the room. “Yes. Good night.” 

The door opened, and she turned her face away for fear that one of the guards would see the first streak of tears, sliding their way onto her gown’s neckline.


	6. The Reconciliation

  
  
Maribelle’s mother had always told her that a lady got up early, regardless of the circumstances, and this saying, above all else, was what had gotten Maribelle up and out of bed at dawn regardless of her near-sleepless night. Celia had been tentative at first, plying her with tea and sugar, before she brought up the question delicately, between fashioning Maribelle’s hair into curls.

“Milady, if I may ask…” Maribelle looked at herself in the mirror and felt her stomach sink, knowing exactly what the maid was about to ask when Celia paused with her curling iron clutched, still steaming, in one hand. “Milady, what happened last night? I heard… raised voices.” 

“Celia, I must say, that isn’t exactly your business.” She leveled a direct stare at the maid through the mirror, and Celia immediately picked out the next section of hair, eyes trained carefully on the blonde mass in front of her.

“Of course, milady. Forgive me.” 

Maribelle avoided shifting uncomfortably, knowing that if she did so the hot iron would most likely burn her skin, and instead faced the mess of creams on her vanity, wondering how to best approach the day.

“Celia, when you are finished with this, please go and ask the guards outside where I can find my husband. I will be visiting him today,” Maribelle said. 

Celia glanced at her, eyes wide. “Your dress, milady?”

“I can do it myself, thank you.” If the months on the road with the Shepherds had taught her anything, Maribelle could easily take care of her own appearance. Celia nodded and bobbed a curtsy on reflex, thankfully not burning Maribelle’s neck with the iron when she did so.

Several silent minutes passed, and Maribelle watched silently as Celia fussed with her hair and the iron, taking quite a bit longer than if Maribelle had done it herself. She reassured herself with the fact that practice would make the maid swifter, eventually. 

Finally Celia set down the iron on a ceramic bracket, designed to not burn the decidedly antique vanity. “If it pleases milady, I will go speak to the guards.”

“Yes, thank you.” Maribelle stood and touched her curls tentatively before nodding at herself in the mirror. She quickly walked to her closet, chose her dress and laced herself up. It was blue, as dark as Chrom’s hair and the matching Brand of the Exalt that one found all across the castle on banners and in tapestries. The color, she knew, was designed to cement her relation to Chrom – it had been a gift from her father, but the present had definitely originated in her mother’s calculating mind. She fixed two ribbons in their normal position in her hair, and then strode out to find her wedding ring.

Celia approached her as she was fiddling with the ring, deciding whether to keep it on the outside or inside of her gloves. “Milady, the guards tell me that Lord Chrom is in his office and likely will be for several hours more.”

“Thank you, Celia,” Maribelle said distractedly, finally fixing the ring outside her glove. “I will leave presently.”

“Milady…” Maribelle looked up, and Celia shrunk slightly. “Um, milady, please excuse me for asking, but I heard…”

“Anything you heard last night was private, and shall be kept to yourself. Do you understand?” Maribelle’s eyes narrowed, and she swung the parasol off her dresser as she spoke.

“Of course, milady! But, um…” Celia bit her lip again, looking to the side and fidgeting with her collar. “I was told by the head maid downstairs, earlier, milady, when I was first assigned, that you would eventually be moving to Lord Chrom’s chambers.”

Maribelle paused, drew herself up to her full height, which was still diminutive. “And?”

“Well, milady, I was going to ask whether this change will be taking place any time soon, as then I can properly prepare for the move ahead of time.” Celia was still not meeting her eyes, and her head had dropped to look at the hem of her dress. 

Maribelle looked at her, torn between anger and pity. “If such a change is taking place, I will inform you shortly. At the moment, Chrom is still busy and we have not been able to coordinate the move. However, when it occurs, I will let you know. Thank you, Celia.”

“Of course, milady,” Celia quickly stuttered out, and curtsied deeply as Maribelle swept past her and to her door. “Good day, milady.”

“Yes, and to you, Celia.” Maribelle opened the door, smiled commandingly at the two guards who quickly bowed at her entrance into the hallway. “Good day, gentlemen.”

“Milady,” they both chorused, and she nodded shortly at both of them before she began to walk to Chrom’s office.

The office was not too long a distance from her room – Chrom’s rooms were almost directly next to hers, after all, and while his office was the room furthest away from their more private rooms, as it was frequented by advisors and the like, it was still closer to her room than most places in the castle. 

The guard set outside the room bowed deeply to her as she approached, his helmet gleaming in the daylight streaming in through the thin windows. “Milady.”

“Good day. Please inform my husband I am here to see him.” Maribelle smiled sweetly at the guard, who nodded importantly and called through the door. 

“Lady Maribelle is here to see you, milord.” 

There was a pause, and then she heard Chrom, distinct though slightly muffled: “Please let her in.”

“Milady.” The guard made a shallow bow and opened the door for her, ushering her in. Maribelle nodded again at him, and walked swiftly inside.

Chrom was sitting at his desk, hair glowing a light blue at his crown due to the morning sunlight streaming in from the window behind him. He had evidently been poring over a huge book in front of him before she had arrived, as it was still spread out in front of him, page haphazardly marked with a quill pen. He pushed the book away from him when she entered and then pulled it slightly back to him, fiddling with it unnecessarily.

When the guard had shut the door again, he greeted her uncertainly, corners of his mouth barely turned upwards. “Maribelle. Good morning.”

“Good day, Chrom,” she said, smiling fully at him. His mouth turned upwards a few degrees more, but he still had the eyes of a deer fully ready to bolt from incoming foxes on the hunt. “If it is all right with you, I should like to accompany you to your meetings today. I think we should attempt to present a united front to both the court and to Ylisse.” 

“Um. All of the meetings?” Whatever Chrom had been expecting, it had not been this. “This is… unexpected.” 

“It is rather sudden, perhaps, but I thought that we could… try to spend a little more time with one another. And you are rather busy.” Maribelle smiled at him again, willing him to agree. 

Chrom nodded slowly. “Yes. All right. It won’t be too many, today. Just a few, one with Frederick, one with – let’s see, I had the list with me.” He began to rummage around in the papers scattered across his desk before withdrawing a piece of parchment from among several identical others. He didn’t look up from the paper as he read it. “I’m meeting with one of the advisors, briefly, one with a magistrate. All of them will be boring, most likely.”

“That’s fine. No one said being an exalt was fun.” Maribelle smiled again, and when he looked up at her he briefly smiled just a tiny bit wider before turning back to his paper. He replaced the parchment on his desk and pulled the quill out of the book, apparently beginning to read again. There was an extended silence.

“Chrom, could you please be so kind as to offer me a seat?” Maribelle finally allowed a touch of irritation to color her voice, and Chrom jumped. 

“What? Yes, of course. Please. You’re welcome to sit anywhere.” He gestured around the room as though the bookshelves themselves could provide viable seating. “Sorry.” 

“Is there perhaps another one apart from the one directly in front of you?” Maribelle looked at the seat, which was obviously meant to be used by the person Chrom was consulting with. 

“Oh. No.” Chrom looked at the chair as well. “You can pull it over to this side of the desk. It’s fine.” 

“Where will your advisors sit?” she asked, eying the rest of the room.

“Well, to be honest, they can stand. It’s what my – it’s what my father made his visitors do, I think. Besides, some of them prefer to stand. Frederick has trouble fitting in the chair with all his armor.” Chrom waved vaguely at the other side of the room to demonstrate his point. 

Maribelle pursed her lips, but finally walked to the chair and began to drag it across the stone floor to the other side of the desk, carefully avoiding the stack of likely priceless books casually laid in a pile beside the bookcase as she did so. Chrom’s gaze was heavy on her back, but when she turned to face him, chair in place, he was studiously fixed on his book again.

“What are you reading?” she attempted.

“It’s a list of feudal dues,” he said, not raising his eyes from the pages. “Horrifically boring.” 

“You certainly seem interested.” She was unable to keep her voice from becoming snide and he looked up at her.

Chrom pulled at a strand of hair at the nape of his neck. “I mean… Maribelle, what are you actually doing here? I feel like I should apologize again.” 

“No need to apologize,” Maribelle said firmly, forcing thoughts of the previous night out of her head. “We can discuss that at some length another time.”

“No,” Chrom said, brows furrowing. “Don’t just pretend that we didn’t fight. Maybe you can do that, but I can’t.”

Maribelle huffed. “What would you like us to do then? Repeat the argument? I don’t claim to understand your reasoning, but I told you I would ‘stand beside you all my life.’ Sometimes we just need to forget our wrongs.”

“What about all the sayings about not letting the sun set on your anger?” Chrom folded his arms in front of him; he was fully facing her now. 

“Perhaps you forget that you were the person to leave, and let the sun set?” Maribelle’s eyes narrowed. 

Chrom grimaced. “Look, yes. I apologized last night, and I will do it again. I am horribly sorry. I think that this was… maybe this was a mistake.”

“If it is a mistake, it does not matter.” Maribelle drew herself up into her most formidably perfect posture. “I am a noblewoman, and you are a noble yourself. We all must live with our mistakes, and if that mistake was me, I assure you, I will endeavor to become less of a mistake than you appear to think of me as currently.”

“Gods. No. That’s not what I mean, Maribelle.” Chrom cringed. “It’s not you that’s the mistake. I think this marriage… maybe we rushed into this.”

“All noble marriages are more business deals than love affairs, Chrom.” Maribelle glanced across his desk, noting a letterhead with her family crest on it. “That’s why dowries exist.” 

“Fine. Call it what you like, but even business deals are carefully considered,” Chrom said. “I should have waited. This is horribly unfair to you. I’m just… I wasn’t raised to be like this.” He was looking at Falchion now.

“You were raised a noble,” Maribelle contended, gripping her parasol. “And even if you are not comfortable with me yet, then I must just wait until you are. I am willing to work with you here. I am unable to back out of this – we are unable to back out of this. Even if you wish we could.”

“Do you not?” Chrom said, and then immediately raised a hand as though to block his mouth, but apparently thought better of it, leaving it in the air between them. “Are you happy like this?”

“I…” Maribelle blinked, looking down and then up again at him. His face was half lit in the light; it reflected brightly off his single shoulder plate of armor and made his dark hair glow. “I was raised to live like this. And this marriage is advantageous to my family, and to yourself and Lissa.”

“That’s not what I mean.” Chrom was meeting her eyes directly, and his gaze was suddenly somehow more exact than before, as though he was looking at her mind instead of her face. “Are you happy? With me, with this marriage?”

She paused, acutely aware of his gaze and not much else. “I suppose… I – yes. I think I am.”

“You think so? Or are you?” 

Maribelle couldn’t take it anymore and looked away into the window, at the little tendrils of Ylisse’s buildings reaching into the forested land. “It does not much matter whether I am or not. I will be, eventually.”

Chrom didn’t say anything, and she felt a slight flush creep across her cheekbones, refusing to look away from the window but not truly seeing the land through the glass.

A shift of paper on the desk finally made her look over at him. He had turned back to his desk, and the expression on his face wasn’t visible from her position. Maribelle turned in her chair to face the desk again and glanced between the papers directly in front of her (“Treatise 27: Duchy of Libis”) and Chrom’s side a few times.

“What is it?” he asked, still not facing her, turning a page.

Maribelle coughed faintly, still slightly thrown off. “Are you – is the work anything I could help you with?”

“Unless you wish to go over a treaty for me, I don’t have much for you to do,” Chrom said shortly, still not facing her. 

Maribelle wavered, bit her lip before she realized she was doing so and mentally scolded herself for acting like hesitant Celia. She reached out her hand and touched his arm; Chrom immediately jolted upwards and around to look at her. 

“What?” He faced her, vexed, arm still slightly up in the air and pulled away from her. 

She took a breath. “I would be willing to go over a treaty for you. Do you happen to have books about Ylisse’s legal policies in here? I am currently studying to be a magistrate, but if I’m going to look over a treaty, I would like to be certain as to what legal restrictions the treaty has.”

“You’re – wait, you’re studying to be a magistrate?” Chrom looked lost. “How?”

Maribelle folded her hands in her lap. “I’ve been reading about legal processes in Ylisse for the past few years.” 

He blinked at her. “I… Really?” 

“Yes.” She frowned at him. “What do you think I did after battle?”

“Well... I thought you, I don’t know, spoke with Lissa.” Chrom was still looking at her as though seeing her for the first time. “But you – I mean, you still want to be a magistrate?”

“Of course.” Maribelle nodded briskly. “It makes even more sense in my current position.” 

“Does it?” Chrom’s brow furrowed. “I thought you just said – I mean, you keep talking about tradition, and pleasing your family and all of that.”

“Do you think I cannot please my family while being a magistrate?” Maribelle pursed her lips at him. “I will be serving my country in ways I could not by being your wife.” 

He looked at his desk and then back at her. “You know… If you wish to please the advisors, this probably isn’t a good way to go about it.”

Maribelle scoffed. “Excuse me. I thought that you, for a second, might have believed that I cared what those men thought! Why would I despair over the thoughts of men so brutish?” 

“Well then,” Chrom started, still eyeing her with confusion, “why do you want to do this?”

“This wasn't something I just decided today to please someone,” Maribelle huffed, irritated at the very thought. “I have grown sick of seeing people change their policies based on who they speak to. Nobleman or servant, the judicial system should stay the same.”

He blinked at her. “Oh. Huh. I didn’t realize you cared about that.”

She made a breathy noise that was the closest she would get to a snort. “Of course I care about things like this. Nobles should attempt to improve the lives of all around them. This is how I was raised.”

Chrom’s mouth was still slightly open. The light through the window had illuminated the whole room now, and all of the papers on his desk, the inkpots and quills strewn around it, were thrown into sharp relief. Before Chrom could respond to her statement, the guard yelled from outside the door.

“Milord, milady. Sir Frederick is here to see you.” Chrom straightened, turned to the front once again.

“Let him in,” Chrom called. The door opened and Frederick, armor somehow almost noiseless (Maribelle was impressed beside herself at the amount of oiling he must have done), entered.

“Milord. Ah. And milady, too, it seems.” The knight arranged himself directly in front of the two of them, arms clasped neatly behind his back. 

“Good day, Frederick,” Chrom said. “You wanted to speak about the pegasus knights?”

“Yes.” Frederick glanced at Maribelle briefly, and she met his gaze with an impassive smile. “We will be needing to elect a new captain of the Pegasus Knight Squadron.” 

“Ah.” Chrom’s face fell. “Of course. I thought perhaps Phila had named a successor.”

“She did.” Frederick frowned. “Or, if I may be more accurate, she nearly did. I have spoken to many remaining members of the squadron and it appears she was going to name Cordelia as her successor.”

“I see.” Chrom nodded slowly. “Have you spoken to Cordelia about this?”

Frederick paused briefly and sighed. Maribelle glanced across the desk in front of them, briefly distracted from the conversation, and located a treaty that hadn’t been signed, identifying it as the one Chrom had mentioned earlier. She neatly picked it up and began to review it, ignoring Frederick’s inquisitive look.

“She appears to be unwilling to lead the group, milord,” Frederick finally said. “She says she is not much of a teacher. Besides, the ranks have been somewhat decimated. She was rather pessimistic about its resurgence.” 

“We have been recruiting and training more, have we not?” Chrom asked. Maribelle could hear the frustration in his voice. “Robin was specifically saying we need to replenish our ranks of pegasus knights.”

“I agree, milord, but…” Maribelle finally blocked the conversation out by carefully running her finger under each line of the treaty as she read it, forcing herself to focus. 

The treaty itself was rather simple – a mere land arrangement treaty concerning land out west. Unfortunately, Maribelle soon grasped why it was important – a section of the land bordered Plegia, and any misplaced words in the treaty could potentially cause problems for Plegian-Ylissean relations in later years. She worked through each line with a figurative fine-toothed comb, silently making additions and changes in her mind. Several minutes later, Maribelle blinked and began to look around on the desk for spare parchment to write her notes out before she forgot. 

“…besides, I think the knights would be willing to accept her as their leader,” Chrom was saying. “I don’t think Cordelia or Sumia would dislike it, either.”

“Cordelia is, at the moment, the most senior of the knights, as far as I can tell, milord, and from our previous conversation I can assume she would be fine with the arrangement.” 

Maribelle smiled at Chrom when he glanced at her, noticing her sudden return to the discussion. “Yes. Thank you, Frederick,” he said, quickly turning back to his knight. “Go ask her if she will take the position, and then if she does, direct her to me.”

“Of course, milord.” Frederick made a short bow and then nodded in Maribelle’s direction. “Good day, milady.”

“Good day, Frederick.” She smiled at him as he turned to leave and then glanced at Chrom. “I went over this for you. Do you have the time to discuss this?”

“Already?” He glanced at the parchment in confusion. “Did you not need a legal book?”

“I would like to confirm a few points with one, but I have a rough idea of what needs to be done, I think.” She scanned his desk again and finally stood, picking up a quill and an inkpot and clearing the small section of his desk that was directly in front of her. “Do you have spare parchment?”

Chrom shuffled through papers and then pulled a sheet of paper that had a minor ink stain across the top out from a sheaf of other splattered pages. “Here.”

“Thank you.” She took it and began to write, speaking as she did so. 

“You should probably tell your advisors – I assume that is who wrote this out for you? – tell them to be more careful with their wording. When the writer penned this, he did not take into account the fact that these sentences” – she indicated which ones on the treaty – “could be taken as an invitation to Plegian soldiers to invade, as they would not allow the residents here to house troops to protect this border.”

“What?” Chrom picked up the treaty. “Where?”

“Section… oh, I believe it’s section five, has a line, something about wishing to enforce peacetime measures, but in focusing on peace it denies the future possibility of war.” Maribelle continued to write, dipping her pen into the inkpot every few words.  
Chrom’s frown deepened. “I see.” 

“Also, quite frankly, some of it is entirely extraneous for a land arrangement treaty. The parts about allotting farming land is not something you should be concerned with as an exalt – that should be determined by the duchy that owns this land.” Maribelle straightened, placing the pen in the pot and picking up her notes, examining them quickly for any missed thoughts.

She felt Chrom’s gaze on her and turned to him. “Yes?”

“Thank you.” Chrom’s mouth had turned upwards into a grin, and he looked slightly impressed. “Truly, Maribelle. That saved me probably an hour or so of cross-examination with an advisor.”

She coughed, flicked a curl of hair behind her shoulder, but couldn’t stop a pleased smile from crossing her face. “It’s nothing.” 

“Heh.” Chrom laughed slightly, turning back to the tome in front of him. “If you would like to read this over for me as well…”

Maribelle quickly shook her head. “No, thank you. An exalt should fully understand the feudal processes he governs.” 

Chrom laughed fully this time. “I understand. This is mind-numbing, and I’ve only been trying for the past hour or so.” 

Maribelle frowned at him. “Well, this is part of your duty, is it not?”

He sighed so deeply he made the papers on his desk flutter. “Yes.”

“Well.” Maribelle nodded. “Then you must do it.”

“I know.” Chrom rested his chin on his hand and turned a page. “Would I be here for any other reason?” 

Maribelle looked up at the map on the other side of the room, seeing the emblazoned Mark of Naga on it, and suddenly thought of Celia again. “Ah. Chrom, I do have a question.”

“Yes?” He looked up. “What is it?” 

“My maid mentioned to me today that she had been told I would be moving to your rooms at some point.” Chrom’s expression soured and he looked back at his books. Maribelle paused, adjusted the inkpot in front of her. “I know that it is perhaps early for you, and I do not suggest that we do this today, but I would like to know when you were planning on doing this.”

“Why do you think we have to follow all conventions?” Chrom asked, glancing at her from the side of his eyes.

“I’m sorry?” Maribelle looked at him. 

“You keep going on about tradition and how you were raised,” Chrom said, putting the quill he’d been fiddling with while reading down with a click on the desk, turning to face her fully. “Why don’t you think about what you want? Do you want to move into my rooms? Is that why you’re asking? Or do you just not want the maids to talk?”

“What?” Maribelle exclaimed, feeling her cheeks flush again. “Why are you so opposed to this?”

“I’m not opposed to it.” Chrom’s eyebrows drew together as he considered her. “I’m curious how you actually feel about it.”

“Do you want the maids to speak about this? I can’t imagine how having the servants gossip about us will improve your standing in this court, or in this realm altogether,” Maribelle said hotly. 

“So you don’t actually want to do it, then,” Chrom asserted. 

“I am willing to do it.” Maribelle made the distinction quickly. “I am willing to do what I have to.”

“But we don’t have to.” Chrom folded his arms again, making the muscles in his arms stand out. “I don’t see why exactly we have to follow conventions to the letter. If I am the exalt, why do we need to do exactly what our predecessors have done?”

“You don’t understand,” Maribelle said, fighting the urge to cross her arms as well. “Tradition is important. You should understand that as well as I do. People are reassured when things like this – especially relationships – follow all the conventions they are supposed to.”

“Well, who cares?” Chrom flicked his head to the side to push a piece of his bangs that was too long out of his eyes. “If we are comfortable, who is going to question it?”

“No one would question you to your face. They would tell you ‘of course, milord,’ and then go and gossip behind your back. Do not try to assert anything different; I saw your advisors. And you told me yesterday – yesterday! – that you would do what was requested of you as an exalt.”

“I will do what is requested of me as an exalt. But there’s no pressure for us to move in together yet. No one besides your maid, apparently, cares.” Chrom frowned at her. “Besides, I was under the impression you didn’t care what the advisors thought.”

Maribelle’s hands tightened on her parasol. “Chrom. Those buffoons can say what they like about me, but I worry more about what they would say about you. You are their exalt – people look to you for affirmation and strength. If people say you are faltering in your marriage, what is Ylisse going to think?”

“My marriage does not reflect the state of Ylisse!” Chrom exclaimed. “No one in their right mind would say so.”

Maribelle snorted. “I can say with firsthand experience that people do say such things. My grandparents were slightly unwilling in their marriage, and all of Themis gossiped and worried about it. There was so much of a to-do about it, even the exalt of the time heard about it.”

“Bullshit.” Chrom snorted. 

Maribelle coughed politely to hide her irritation. “Excuse me, that is the _truth._ ”

“I’m not questioning the truth of it,” he said, rolling his eyes, “I’m questioning the idiocy of the people in believing that. Who cares whether we room together? The advisors want an heir. Fine. Eventually, yes, there will be an heir.”

Maribelle’s lips thinned. “Well, perhaps it would be easier to at least pretend we are trying to do what the advisors ask. That would be quite a bit easier if I was to move into your rooms.”

Chrom exhaled. “You’re not giving this up, are you?” 

“I am trying to do what is best for the both of us. What would be best for the marriage.” Maribelle drilled him with her best glare. “Your kingdom is not full of well-educated savants. I believe it is in our best interests to act in a fashion that will not allow them to worry about the future of this country, especially since superstition seems to run rampant at times like this.”

“So you’re not doing this for yourself, then.” Chrom eyed her.

“With all due respect,” she began, “I will do my duties to you as your wife, but I am no more willing to do them than any other work.”

Chrom huffed out a laugh, covering his eyes with one hand. “You’re unbelievable.”

“Excuse me?” Maribelle straightened. “This is my –”

“Duty. Yes, I know.” Chrom dropped his hand from his eyes and met her with a wry grin. “You have more backbone than I, I think.”

Maribelle paused, hearing a compliment but uncertain if it was a true one. “I… thank you.”

He shook his head, laughing in the same disbelieving way again. “I suppose I will speak to the maids about moving you.”

“I see.” Maribelle blinked. “So when should I tell my maid to prepare to move in by?”

Chrom’s mouth quirked into a reluctant smile. “So business-like.” 

“What?” Maribelle frowned, uncertain as to the humor of the situation. “Of course. I need to have a small amount of time to prepare before I move in.”

“No, no. It’s fine.” Chrom waved a hand at her, his eyes still amused. “Is two days from now too late?”

Maribelle shut her mouth, realizing it had dropped open. “No. No, that should be fine.”

“All right.” Chrom nodded. “Then that’s settled, in your favor. Were there any other pressing questions?”

“Pressing?” Maribelle frowned at him, and at the ‘in your favor’. “No.” 

“All right. Then I’ll be reading this. If you want law books, I think I saw some over on the bookshelf there.” Chrom gestured to his right. 

Maribelle looked at him, attempting to discover if he was trying to escape the conversation. “Thank you.” 

“Of course.” He turned to look at her, mouth slightly turned up at the edges. 

She pursed her lips but eventually smiled at him uncertainly in return, and then stood, uncomfortable with the eye contact, to retrieve a book to read.

It was at least an hour later when Chrom stood and Maribelle jumped, suddenly returning to the world and emerging from thoughts of the intricacies of theft punishments. The book was resting heavily on her lap now, thick with extended notes and case studies, though it had not bothered her when she had begun to read. Chrom was stretching, pulling his arms behind his body with clasped hands, and Maribelle quickly dropped her eyes to avoid staring when he glanced in her direction.

“Are you not bored of this?” he asked, and when she looked back up at him he was still holding his arms behind him. “Sitting around?”

“No.” Maribelle looked at the text in front of her again. “It was rather illuminating.”

Chrom laughed, dropping his arms with a sigh and rolling his shoulders. “You sounded just like Miriel for a second.”

“No, I didn’t,” Maribelle contended, realizing as she did so that she had indeed mimicked the mage. 

He looked at the book in front of him and sighed. “If only I didn’t have another meeting soon, there might be time to train a little.”

“I’m sure you could do without a day of training,” she said. Chrom turned to her, gloom written over his features as surely as though she had drawn it there herself. 

“Please, Maribelle. Sympathize with me, here.” He waved to all the papers. “There’s nothing to do here besides read.”

“Reading,” Maribelle began sharply, only to be stopped by a gloved palm in her direction.

“Please. I got that lecture from Emm every single time I complained about reading something. ‘Reading increases your intelligence, Chrom.’” He smiled regretfully, no longer looking at the papers in front of him. “‘Never be ashamed to read, it’s no lesser than your training outside,’ and so on.”

“She was right,” Maribelle said, thinking about the past exalt. 

“She was right about a lot of things.” Chrom’s tone was heavy, weighted by memories. Maribelle looked up at him, watching him run to the falling woman again in her mind, the only things entirely visible through the shimmering heat of the sands his cape, his rushing feet. She looked at her lap, staring at the words in the book in front of her as though they would give her something to say.

He huffed out a breath. “That’s besides the point now, I suppose.”

“No, I think you are right to remember it.” Maribelle glanced up at him, pausing, knowing she was overstepping her boundaries. No one gave etiquette lessons about how to comfort the bereaved. “I – your sister saved my life, and at the risk of her own. She was selfless, and intelligent, far beyond her years. I… It is good to remember someone like her.”

Chrom’s dark eyes were fixed on her, expression unreadable. She opened her mouth, about to apologize, but he smiled. “Thank you, Maribelle.”

She cleared her throat. “No need to thank me. I owe her a debt I can never repay. If she had left me…”

“No one would have left you behind,” Chrom interjected, suddenly frowning. “Don’t blame yourself for anything.”

Maribelle looked at the legal book in front of her again. “We cannot change the past, I suppose.” 

“No.” Chrom sat down heavily beside her, and when she looked over, he was fidgeting with a spare piece of parchment in front of him. “We cannot.”

Maribelle looked at the book, its sentences carefully penned by some monk’s swooping hand, and pretended to read for several seconds, glancing up at him every few seconds as though expecting him to begin to weep, although even in her wildest imagination Maribelle could not picture him doing so. Eventually, Chrom sighed almost inaudibly and pulled the feudal tome closer to him, slumping over it once more. 

Maribelle took this as a dismissal and found where she had left off in the long list of penalties doled out to thieves. It was somewhat impossible to read without thinking of Gaius, which made her frown darkly. The scheming craven. Lissa found him harmless, but he was one of the worst of the many brigands she had to protect Lissa from. Maribelle, suddenly curious, began to look for the exact punishment that thief would have received. It would have to be somewhere in section three… 

A voice suddenly called out, and they both jolted upright. “Someone to see you, milord!”

Chrom blinked several times, as though emerging from a lake. He glanced at Maribelle, who secured her smile on her face again and nodded. “Yes. Let him in.”


	7. The Move

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like this chapter is literally a giant excuse for the small comedic scene in the middle.

  
  
“Where, exactly, did you get this?” Chrom was fiddling with one of her tea sets, bemusedly clinking one of the teapots open and shut. “I didn’t even realize we had one of these things with a Mark of Naga on it.”

“It’s a teapot, Chrom, not a thing.” Maribelle walked over and took it from him neatly, placing it back on its tray. “And please, don’t do that. You’ll ruin the catch.”

“Pardon me, milady.” Celia appeared, saw Chrom, and flushed brightly, curtsying again, as though this wasn’t the fourth time she’d seen him in the past few hours. 

Maribelle resigned herself to the fact that it appeared her maid was in deep-seated awe of her husband. It was probably better than the opposite. “Yes?”

“I have unpacked all of your dresses, and your shoes as well. Your toiletries have been installed in the washroom. Shall I shelve your books, milady, or –”

“Thank you. I will do that myself.” Maribelle smiled at the girl, who dipped her head. “You are dismissed, Celia.”

“Thank you milady, milord.” She curtsied again and walked out the door of Chrom’s chambers. Maribelle frowned at her back as the door closed, wondering how many more times she had already curtsied in front of Chrom than in front of just her. 

“Well. Just as you asked.” Chrom gestured around the room. “Here you are.”

“Yes. I thank you.” Maribelle smiled at him. 

The rooms were, to be honest, just as large as the ones she had left. Their only difference was that they were clearly meant to hold a member of the royal family – the dark blue and white colors that pervaded the castle were particularly emphasized in the room, in bedspreads, banners, and the small arrangement of a couch and chairs. 

Nonetheless, it was fairly obvious, Maribelle could see, that her husband didn’t spend much time in the rooms – Celia had found dust in the second closet where Maribelle’s things now resided, and in some of the drawers as well. One of the only marks that Chrom lived there at all was the two-inch slash in one of the armchairs’ arms, where presumably he had had a mishap with Falchion. 

“Are you sure you don’t need help with all of this?” Chrom eyed the stacks of books and odds and ends that Celia had brought over with the help of several guards as they were too heavy and numerous for her maid to carry. “You can have as much of the bookshelves as you want. Most of these books were my father’s, I think.”

“No, I should be fine.” Maribelle walked over and picked up the top book on one of the stacks. _Ylissean Case Studies: Extended Edition_ stared up at her. 

“Hm.” Chrom walked over beside her and picked up the next book, reading the title off. “'Origin of Laws in Feroxi-Ylisse relations.’ Sounds riveting.”

“It’s important,” Maribelle said, frowning at him as she walked over to one of the two towering bookshelves that reached up to the stone ceiling. She began to survey the titles. “The exam for magistrates contains a long section on foreign relations laws.”

“Remind me, when are you planning on taking that?” A rustling of paper behind her probably indicated Chrom was flicking through the book. “Gods. The text in this is miniscule.”

“I had planned on taking it soon,” Maribelle said, pulling out the first of the ancient-looking texts that were still resting in the bookshelf in front of her and replacing it with her own book, which at the least was not streaked with dust. “However, I am rather behind on my studies at the moment.”

“Have you actually read all this?” The clink of a shoulderplate announced Chrom’s arrival beside her. He handed her the book he’d been skimming through, and Maribelle exchanged it for a book in his bookshelf.

“Not yet. But I could ask the same to you: have you read all of these?” Maribelle frowned at the vast array of texts that seemed to have lain untouched for centuries. “These must be worth a fortune, and yet they’ve been left to rot.”

“They’re not rotting,” Chrom protested, running his glove over the cover of the book she had handed him. When he turned his hand over, the white glove was covered in a layer of black dust. Maribelle looked at him and he grimaced. “Well. They could be dusted once in a while.”

“Probably so, yes.” Maribelle began to stack the shelves’ contents onto the floor next to her, brushing her hands together every once in a while in an effort to clean her previously pristine gloves.

Chrom rested his bare shoulder against the frame of the bookshelf and watched her clear out the bookshelves wordlessly for a few seconds. Maribelle finally paused after emptying the second shelf and faced him. He didn’t move, blue eyes fixed to her own.

Maribelle cleared her throat, looking to the bookshelf, somewhat unnerved by his stare. “Again, I thank you for this. I know this was not your idea.”

“It’s fine.” Chrom turned so his back rested against the frame and looked up at the ceiling of the room. “You were pretty insistent.”

She bit her lip. “Yes. Well. It was our best option.”

Several minutes passed, Maribelle working silently at clearing the shelves and Chrom apparently studying the ceiling with unsettling intent. Finally she cleared her throat, discomforted. Chrom did not often do nothing. “Chrom. Will you please pass me some of my books?”

“What?” He looked at her as though surprised to see her standing beside him. “Oh. Yes.” 

She waited for him as he walked over to the stacks and retrieved a large armful of books, presenting it to her wordlessly. “Thank you.”

“It’s fine.” Chrom nodded at her as she took the top book from the stack he was holding, her fingers just about brushing the buttons on his outfit. 

“Nonetheless.” Maribelle placed the book in the shelf, decidedly avoiding his eyes. “I appreciate it.”

“Let me help, at least.” Chrom switched the stack to one of his hands and began to stack them on the other side of the shelf with his other hand. “It’ll go faster this way.”

“It doesn’t have to go quickly. I don’t have much else to do, you know.” Maribelle could feel him looking at her, but she continued to inspect the book titles in front of her as though she hadn’t just seen Celia pack them up. 

“What were you doing yesterday, then?” Chrom asked. “I thought you were studying.”

“No.” Maribelle took another book and frowned at it. “No. I was in the stables for part of the day. My horse finally came.”

“Came?” She finally looked over at Chrom, who looked confused. “You know you can use any of the ones in the royal stables now. And before – I mean, you would have been welcome to use any one of them before… our marriage, as well.”

Maribelle smiled tightly at _Political Alliances and Duchies_ , noting the pause in his sentence. “I wrote my father and asked him to send my horse. I am used to her, and no one in Themis was going to use her now that I have left. Besides, I will use her when we visit the Shepherds.”

“About that.” Chrom picked up the second-to-last book in the stack he was still holding and then stopped. “Wait. What is this?” 

“What?” Maribelle looked over and then choked. “What!”

Chrom was vibrating beside her, his badly suppressed laugher quiet but distinct. “Is this…”

“That is not mine!” Maribelle had turned dark red, and she snatched the book from his hands. “Good gods! What is this!”

“I believe it’s called 'Make Him Fall for You in a Fortnight,'” Chrom helpfully added, and then lost his composure and started laughing, holding onto the bookshelf for support.

“This is not mine! Chrom! I swear!” Maribelle shook the book in his face, trying to make the statement more believable. “I promise you, I have never seen this before in my life!”

Chrom was still bent over with the force of his laughter, but he waved a hand in her direction as though to inform her that, no, he couldn’t breathe right now, let alone talk properly. Maribelle had the distinct urge to smack him on the top of his head with the book, but restrained herself. 

“I promise you!” Maribelle covered her burning face with one of her hands and then immediately removed it, coughing, when she realized it was caked in dust. “Ugh! I cannot believe this!”

He finally straightened slightly, took one look at her, and then began to laugh again. Maribelle scoffed, fuming, and then ripped open the book to try to discover its origins. Written with looping, schoolgirl cursive that Maribelle recognized all-too-well, was a short letter.

‘Maribelle – I’ve heard this works wonders. I know you will be an excellent wife and, eventually, I know you will be a wonderful mother. Remember what I taught you. – Mother’

Maribelle scoffed louder, and snapped the book shut. “Well, you have my mother to thank for your amusement.”

Chrom looked up, still chuckling, and then covered his mouth with the back of his hand in another attempt to suppress it. “I’ll have to remember to write her a letter, and thank her properly.”

She sniffed. “I cannot believe this.”

“Let me see it,” Chrom said, holding out his hand, still grinning widely.

“No, thank you.” Maribelle gave it another furious glare. “I’ll burn this myself.”

“Oh, it’s not that embarrassing,” Chrom tried, face now serious. She looked at him out of the corner of her eye and his mouth twitched upwards. “Okay. All right. Maybe it is.”

“I cannot believe her.” Maribelle turned away from him, properly furious now. “I just – the nerve!”

“Maribelle. It’s really – I mean, it’s embarrassing, but it’s not yours. Well, it is sort of yours, but you know what I mean.” Chrom walked around to try to look her in the eyes again. Maribelle remembered herself, took a deep breath.

“Yes. That is correct, of course.” She exhaled deeply, avoiding glancing at the cover she was still holding in case somehow this made it worse. “Forgive me. It seems I lost my temper.” 

“I don’t know if you lost your temper, exactly… I’d say you were more mortified than anything.” Chrom was grinning widely again, and Maribelle scowled at him. He held his hands up. “All right, I’ll stop. Sorry.”

“Please do that. And, while you are at it, just – get rid of this.” Maribelle held out the book as far away from her as she could, and Chrom took it. She avoided looking at his shoulders, which were beginning to shake with silent laughter again at the title page. 

“Were you supposed to use this on me?” Chrom asked, mirth audible in his voice. Maribelle picked up a book from one of her other stacks and shoved it with more force than was necessary into one of the shelves. 

“Gods, listen to this. ‘As every lady knows, a good husband is difficult to find. Thus, it should be her objective to –’”

“Please. Spare me,” Maribelle said shortly. “Either cut it to pieces or begin a fire. Preferably, do both.”

“All right. Sorry. Again.” Chrom chuckled again behind her. “But isn’t that, I don’t know, a little… extreme?”

“Chrom.” Maribelle faced him. “Please, do me a favor and start a fire.”

He eyed her for a second and then shook his head, his smile disbelieving. “Well, if you’re sure… Give me a minute.”

She continued to shelve books, hands trembling. The fact that her own mother, the cream of nobility, would think that she would use that sort of book? As though love was important in a relationship like this. How many times had the same woman told her that the basis of a marriage was trust, not love? It was ridiculous. Maribelle shoved _Six Cases that Changed Ylisse_ with too much force into its position, and it hit the back of the bookshelf with a thud. She sighed. It was the sort of book that dreamy Sumia might glance at, blushing, and then put down before anyone saw her reading it.

Gradually, Maribelle realized that there was a crackle of a fire beginning to hiss behind her in the fireplace beside the array of couches and chairs. She turned, parts three and four of a seven-part set on foundational laws still in her hands.

“Do you truly wish to burn this?” Chrom asked, leaning over the fire with a poker. “At the least, Lissa may find it amusing.”

“No, thank you.” Maribelle shelved the books, brushed her gloves of the grime they had accumulated as best she could and strode over to the crackling fire. She shook her hair off her neck, suddenly aware that the fire was emitting uncomfortable amounts of heat in the summer weather. “Please hand me the book, if you would.”

Chrom paused, flicked through the book with one hand, and then, at Maribelle’s impassive glare, finally handed it over, still fighting a broad smile. “All right. Next time, you can’t give me a lecture on reading, seeing as you’re burning books.”

“This is hardly a book.” Maribelle eyed the cover with extreme distaste. “I can hardly believe my own mother thought this could be useful.”

“I’m sure she meant well.” Chrom eyed the book, expression suddenly verging on serious. “I mean, I suppose this is her way of… I don’t know. Worrying about you.”

“Hardly.” Maribelle bent down, shielding her face from the wave of heat that suddenly hit her, and tossed the book delicately into the flames. It missed slightly, but within seconds it had caught. She stood, patted the thin sheen of sweat that had accumulated on her brow with the back of her gloves, and nodded firmly at the burning book.

“Did your parents really approve of this?” 

She turned to face him, mouth pursing. “Of course. Would my father have signed you the dowry otherwise?”

“Well, I mean, personally. Not politically.” Chrom crossed his arms.

“Will you stop going on about that?” asked Maribelle, eyes narrowing. “I am not just their daughter. I am – or, really, I was – the heir to the Duchy of Themis. I –”

“Which brings me to my other question,” Chrom interrupted, “you’re not getting the duchy anymore?

“No.” Maribelle glanced at the fire again, staring at the flickering embers. “It will go to one of my cousins, most likely.” 

“Did you want to rule it?” 

“Chrom, please. Why are you so… curious about this?” Maribelle had almost said ‘nosy.’

“You were the person who told me that we should become closer.” Chrom shrugged. “And I’m curious, I suppose.”

Maribelle coughed, stepping away from the flames as she began to feel a trickle of sweat down her back. “Well, certainly I said that. And I meant it.”

“All right, then.” Chrom straightened. “So, tell me, your parents do approve of this?”

“First, let’s get this fire out before I have heatstroke.” Maribelle quickly touched her flushed face, registered that there was dust on her gloves once again, and tutted. “I am going to change these gloves. You can send for Celia. She’s very efficient with things like this.”

“You’re avoiding the question,” Chrom shot at her back. Maribelle shook her head slightly, going to her closet. “And I can put this out. No need to bother your maid.”

“I have a question, then.” Maribelle stripped her gloves away, thankful to let them fall to the floor, and located another pair, securing them in place with the little pearls that passed for buttons. 

“By all means,” Chrom’s voice, somewhat muffled, called back.

“Why do you not have a manservant of your own? A steward? A valet?” Maribelle emerged from the closet. “There are two attached rooms here – one for a woman’s handmaid and one for a man’s valet. I daresay neither have been used for years.”

“Emmeryn and I both agreed on something.” Chrom was fiddling with a bucket of sand next to the fireplace, which was now smoking violently but was without flames. “Being royal does not mean that we are somehow above humanity. I can dress myself and bathe myself and so on. I don’t need someone to do this for me. She thought the same thing.”

Maribelle paused. “Lady Emmeryn had no handmaiden?”

“No.” Chrom straightened, waving at the smoke in an effort to make it stay inside the chimney. He paused and turned suddenly towards her, hands up apologetically. “That doesn't mean, of course, that you can’t keep your own maid.”

She looked at the stones in front of her in the floor. “Well. I daresay it must make me look rather selfish in your eyes.”

“No, no. Not at all,” Chrom said quickly. “I mean, Lissa has about five handmaidens. At last count, at least.”

“She has three,” Maribelle corrected him. “But they’re really more like her friends than her servants, truth be told. She gives them many liberties.”

“Heh. That’s Lissa for you.” Chrom grinned. “I don’t think she’s ever found someone she couldn’t befriend within a day.”

“It’s a dangerous skill,” she suddenly interjected, frowning, pushing thoughts of an uncomfortable Celia from her mind. “I fear it leaves her very prone to the wolves, if you will.”

“The wolves?” Chrom looked at her, lost. “Ylisstol has no wolves.”

“Figuratively.” Maribelle frowned at him, waving a hand in the air as though to push him into keeping up. “The wolves. The brutes. Male brigands.”

“Brigands?” Chrom looked to his door, as though contemplating asking the guards to check on Lissa. “I seriously doubt anyone is foolish enough to attack the castle. Well, not that they haven’t tried before…”

“No! Chrom. Listen to me.” Maribelle walked closer to him. “Your sister, our dearest Lissa, is undoubtedly appealing to any man she passes by. She shines like a sun and they are drawn like moths to a flame!” 

“Um. They are?” Chrom’s eyes had widened, but she could easily see he was more incredulous than surprised. 

“Yes!” Maribelle crossed her arms. How had he failed to realize this? “I know her better than anyone. And she must be defended relentlessly, lest someone sneak their way into her all-too-soft heart!”

“All-too-soft?” Chrom blinked a few times, mouth slowly curving up into a smile again. “Um, Maribelle, I think she can take care of herself.”

“Pish!” Maribelle sniffed. “She is utterly unaware of her own appeals.”

“Right.” Chrom shook his head. “Well, I’m sure you’ll put them through the wringer if she doesn’t.”

“Of course.” Maribelle frowned. “No one is good enough for her.”

There was a pause in the conversation, Chrom visibly thinking about the exchange. Maribelle nodded, smiling. Finally. He would understand this. After all, he was her older brother.

“So then, why would you want Lissa to marry for love and not yourself?” Maribelle recoiled, mouth dropping open slightly. Chrom’s head was tilted to the side, waiting for a response. 

She collected herself, pushed down her frustration, and made a point to look him straight in the face. “Please, Chrom. I did this because it was best for everyone, and I am hoping we will be able to reach a sort of… mutual respect. I do not expect love, but I daresay you don’t, either.”

“You said that last time, too.” Chrom frowned at her. “‘I do not expect love.’ 

“I meant what I said last time, and I mean it today as well.” Maribelle turned away, returning to her stacks of books. “Please, do not keep questioning my motives. I assure you they are for the good of all.”

“You’re pretty selfless when you want to be, you know.” Maribelle paused, hands still reaching for a stack in front of her. She looked at the title uncomprehendingly, feeling a flush creep onto her cheeks that she couldn’t quite explain away with the lingering heat from the fire. 

“Well.” Picking up the book, she turned, business-like, to the shelves, thankful that her thick curls shielded her face somewhat. She refused to look at Chrom. “I suppose that is a favorable trait for a magistrate.” 

“Heh.” She could hear his boots across the stone floors, and tensed, thinking he would come up behind her. Instead, they continued, and she turned to see him head for the door. He paused with his hand on the door handle. “It’s probably good for a magistrate, but I’d say it’s also a pretty good trait for a queen.”

Maribelle did freeze this time, and immediately turned away when she heard the door open, as though this was less obvious of an action than facing him with a reddened face. “I thank you,” she said, still looking in the direction of the fireplace, words heavy with uncharacteristic gratitude.

“You’re welcome.” She could hear the smile in his voice. The door swung open, a slight creak and the guards’ “Milord!” her indication that he had left. 

Maribelle looked at A Feroxi Guide to Ylisse: Abridged and covered her flushed cheeks with one of her gloved hands.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apparently it’s a popular book. Who knew?
> 
> I seriously considered titling this “The Fahrenheit 451 Reenactment.” Okay. Maybe not _seriously_ considered…


	8. The Lovely Maidens

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has come to you through immense difficulty and exams. Please love me and all I have sacrificed for you. (Seriously though, forgive me for how long this has taken… Hopefully I haven’t lost any of you lovely people over my long absence!)

  
  
Maribelle’s first thought as the approached the encampment was that she’d only ever travelled here by carriage, and the view from her horse was slightly more impressive than the lacy curtains she normally saw. The wooden gates, pounded and sealed with iron bolts thicker than her arm, slowly opened for them so that she could see directly into the mess of training grounds, weapons tents and stables that composed the Shepherd’s camp. 

Her second thought was of the deep, all encompassing need for composure. A group of soldiers stood in various forms of armor in front of them, clustered in a rough semi-circle nearby the gate. She felt already the deep discomfort of lying to one’s companions, although she had not even opened her mouth nor dismounted. As she glanced to her side, she knew her husband was also unsettled, coughing in a way that was likely meant to clear his throat, but was really a telltale sign of uneasiness.

“Hoy there!” The gruff voice was unmistakably Vaike’s, even at a slight distance. His blonde hair was bright in the morning sunlight, clear enough that the smudges of dirt in it were very distinct. “So the married man arrives.”

“Vaike,” Chrom greeted him simply, swinging off his horse with a thud and walking the rest of the way through the gates. “Morning, everyone.”

Maribelle lifted herself off of her darling horse, patted her briefly on the flanks, and hurried up to walk beside her husband. Perhaps his cape would shield her somewhat from the strange looks they were already receiving.

“Well, well. Looks like the lovebirds have arrived.” Sully’s spear was, as always, ever-present, and it was now being used to prop her up as she slouched. Miriel was eyeing the misuse out of the corner of her eye, her mouth thin. “Care to tell us how the wedding went?”

“It was fine. Small.” Chrom surveyed the group of them. Maribelle was mostly ignoring Sully in favor of searching for the women who had very obviously had considered Chrom as both their unattainable love and the perfect commander. Sumia was standing behind the rest of the crowd, a sheen of sweat on her face and a steel lance in her grip indicating a recently broken-off sparring session. Her gaze was heavy and fixed on Chrom, but there was a smile on her lips. Cordelia was nowhere to be seen. 

Her husband immediately located Robin, the contrast between her dark cloak and white hair making it easy to do so. “Robin. I need to discuss something with you.”

The tactician slid her eyes from Chrom to Maribelle and back again. She quirked her lips up into a half-smile. “Okay, sure.” 

“Hell, is that why you called this meeting? I was thinking you were actually coming to get your ass kicked.” Sully was still eyeing Chrom, a wicked smile on her face. 

“By the Vaike, you mean,” Vaike suddenly interjected. 

“Hah! As though you could.” Chrom raised an eyebrow. “You forget, Vaike, that it’s rare for you to best me.”

Maribelle’s eyes narrowed, but she didn’t chime in. Throughout her days as part of the Shepherds, she had learned that Chrom didn’t consider it beneath himself to spar with anyone who challenged him – particularly Vaike. Despite the fact the man had absolutely no manners. Maribelle frowned at him more decidedly, remembering an overheard piece of gossip that he’d once tried to spy on the women’s bathhouse. If it was true, mercy was far beneath her.

“Before the bloodbath, I have a question.” Virion strode up, hair fluttering in the wind. Maribelle’s expression worsened, thinking of her times dreaming of men from Valm. He had most certainly timed that entrance to show off his new cravat. “Why, dear prince, were we not invited to the wedding? I would very much have enjoyed the occasion, and I am sure we would all say the same.”

An uneasy silence settled over the group, and Maribelle swore she saw even Kellam for a split second, turning to face Chrom with the rest of them. The nearly instinctual urge to twist at her ring was hard to resist, despite the fact that it was hidden beneath her gloves. Maribelle satisfied herself by gripping her parasol with both hands, thankful for the small mercies that having her umbrella with her allowed. 

“Anyone was invited to the presentation,” Chrom said, either oblivious to the sudden tension or far too used to it to let it phase him. “Only family for the wedding.” 

“Ah, of course.” Virion smiled widely. “I am sad to have missed it. I am sure, Maribelle, you made a lovely bride. Most certainly the bards will sing that you were the very vision of purity and –”

“Thank you, Virion.” She cut him off neatly, putting up her parasol for emphasis. Turning to Robin, she smiled. “I believe there was something to discuss?”

Robin’s eyebrows raised a few degrees, and she cast a glance to Chrom. Chrom grimaced suddenly. “Um. Maybe we could wait on that one?” 

“Ah!” Maribelle smiled all the wider. “Of course. Please, don’t let me bother you two. Go ahead and discuss what you would. I will…” Her eyes lit upon a tiny figure in the distance, a piece of white fabric trailing between her hands, a tuft of thick pink hair swinging behind her. “Go and speak to Olivia briefly.”

“Right. Yes. Thank you, Maribelle.” Chrom quickly cast her a smile before turning back to Robin. “The strategy tent?”  
“It’s available.” Robin spun around quickly, beginning to flip through a book she had been holding. Her husband matched her pace step-for-step. 

Sully turned around and smacked Kellam’s armor soundly with her spear. “So, I finally found you. Good. Time for some training.” What she could see of Kellam’s face immediately contracted into an expression of fear. He looked as though he rather wished to retreat into his armor like a turtle. Miriel likewise turned at the cue of metal on metal, muttering something about an experiment. 

“Please excuse me as well,” Maribelle informed what was left of the gathering, pushing between Sully and Virion without waiting for a response. Even though several people stood between them, the look she was getting from Sumia was hot enough that Maribelle almost wished to put her umbrella between them. 

“Milady, if you please,” Virion started, holding out a hand entreatingly. She paused, but turned in order to better direct a disapproving look at him. The man grinned at her. “May we talk?”

“I believe we already are.”

“Ah, of course. The fair lady is brimming with wit, as always.” He closed his eyes and Maribelle felt more than saw the impending monologue arriving. “I am sure Chrom is grateful to have such an equally beauteous and intelligent woman at his side. All of the –”

“Again, Virion. Thank you.” Maribelle frowned at him. “What was it you wished to speak of? 

“Yes. Quite.” Virion cast a glance around the remainder of the party. “If you would follow me quickly?” 

Maribelle likewise scanned the group. Most of the Shepherds were retreating to their various normal activities, probably to be followed with a rousing carousal later that night. It had been months since Chrom had called a meeting of the Shepherds, and it was more likely than not to end in sweeping recollections of the past battles, and with people like Lissa crying into their ale. For now, however, many seemed content to carry on as though their leader had not reappeared after a few months’ residency in the castle. 

“I do wish to speak to Olivia,” Maribelle reminded him. 

Virion grinned widely. “But of course! This shall take but a moment of milady’s time.”

“All right.” Maribelle nodded shortly. “Lead the way.” 

The archer bowed, as regal as though they were in the court instead of on the plains of the Shepherd’s encampment. “As milady wishes.” They walked silently towards and then behind the main weaponry tent, before Virion stopped, turning around. 

“Here?” Maribelle looked around. “What do you wish to show me here?”

Virion held up a hand placatingly. “Milady, to be frank, I needed to speak to you in privacy.”

“What on earth could necessitate such privacy?” Maribelle scowled at him. “I am married; I have no need to be skulking behind the weaponry tent with a notorious flirt!” 

Virion pressed his hand to his heart and bent slightly over, miming a sudden pain. “Ah, milady. I see why you carry no sword – your tongue is sharp enough!” 

“Cease this joking!” Maribelle crossed her arms as best she could while still holding her parasol aloft. “If you have need of me, then speak. If not, I will go find Olivia.”

“As milady wishes.” He straightened and fixed her with an unusually perceptive look. “I hear that there is perhaps trouble in the court of Ylisse. Specifically, between its ruling couple.”

“Oh?” Maribelle’s eyebrows rose, her pulse quickening. “How strange.”

“Strange indeed, milady.” Virion paused. “There are rumors among those at the court –”

“And how do you know this, exactly?” Maribelle interrupted him, feeling the familiar tightening in her chest that signified impending fury. “I know Chrom would be shocked to find there are moles in the court, reporting to the former Duke of Rosanne!” 

“Moles? Of course not, dearest Maribelle!” Virion looked shocked. “No, no, no. Just old friends. And you know how court gossip is.”

Maribelle pressed her lips tightly together. “And I had hoped, perhaps, you knew it well enough to know that most of it is utter rot!” 

“Peace, milady. At least hear me out.” Virion waited until Maribelle nodded stiffly for him to continue. “As I was saying, there are rumors among those at court that the married couple is not exactly happily married. Someone said they heard of you two arguing, loudly.”

Maribelle clenched her parasol so tightly her gloves cut into her skin uncomfortably. Celia.

Virion paused, bit his teeth together lightly in a slight grimace. “And – you must forgive me this, milady – there are rumors amongst them that you are a rather reluctant wife.” 

Maribelle tensed, every muscle quivering in an attempt to restrain herself from smacking him. She shut her eyes, released a shaking breath, and, with no small amount of effort, tittered lightly. “I hardly know how these friends of yours at court could fabricate such ridiculous lies!” 

Virion chuckled, but Maribelle could see his eyes were not laughing. “Lies they may be, but even a lie is deadly if enough believe it.”

“I say, shame on those who question their royal family.” Maribelle straightened, readjusted her grip on her parasol, and nodded at him, smile firmly on her face. “Good day, Virion.”

“To you as well, milady.” She turned on her heel and began to quickly walk away. Virion’s voice followed her as she went. “And milady. I will do what I can to crush these rumors, but perhaps it was best that people understand they are truly lies.”

Maribelle didn’t stop walking, but she understood perfectly what he meant. Virion, the absolute fool, could be useful in his own way. His careful warnings were indications that his loyalty (for the moment at least) was still with Chrom, and he was quietly worried about the implications their marriage would have on Chrom’s influence.

Ridiculous. Maribelle snorted. Who beyond their wildest, most foolish dreams, would dare question the exalt? Faces immediately came to mind (the most petty of the court ladies, the most vicious of the advisors, so many nobles from Plegia, or even Regna Ferox, or perhaps merely commoners swayed by the opinions of those higher up) and Maribelle frowned instantly. While she often told herself there was no time to think of the opinions of the lesser, now her husband and herself depended substantially on others’ opinion to leverage their power in the courts. Her path had been chosen, and she had chosen it herself – she had no chance to reconsider it, let alone substantially alter it. 

A flash of pink in the corner of her eye made Maribelle pause mid-thought and turn. “Olivia!”

“Oh! Maribelle.” Olivia quickly looped a piece of her thick hair behind her ear, clutching her white sash to her chest with the other hand. “Um. Hello!”

“Yes. Good day to you as well,” Maribelle smiled politely at the dancer. The two had spent time together before, mostly outside of battle. While the girl’s insufferable twitch towards shyness was a touch infuriating, Olivia had at the very least the poise of a noblewoman, even if her blood didn’t reflect the same. “Where are you headed?”

“Oh, I was going to practice somewhere, but the mess tent is being used.” Olivia’s cheeks reddened slightly. “So I’m not really sure.”

“Well, that so happens to be fortuitous, as I was also going to take a walk around the compound.” Maribelle indicated with a slight tip of her parasol ahead of them. “We can speak while you search for a place to dance.”

“Oh, no, no. You don’t have to do that,” Olivia tried quickly, waving her hands around so that the white cloth she held fluttered in the wind. “I don’t want to bother you at all.” 

“Nonsense. Do you really think I would suggest such a thing if I was not willing and able to do so?” Maribelle tossed her head. “Let us walk.”

“Um. Okay.” Olivia flushed at Maribelle’s sudden raised eyebrow. “I mean, I’m sorry! If you insist, then, I wouldn’t turn down the company. So, um, thank you.”

“You realize your fillers make it difficult to understand you, don’t you? ‘Um’ is not a word.” Maribelle pointed at the dancer and she immediately shrunk away, flushing brighter. “Stop using it. You need to impart confidence to your listener, especially as you are low-born.”

“Um. Right.” Olivia bunched the cloth to her chest and held it there, looking at the grass between them.

“I will ignore the filler you just used. Let us search.” Maribelle began to stride purposefully down the pathway between tents, not waiting for Olivia to scurry up behind her until she was walking alongside her.

“Oh. Um, congratulations, by the way.” 

Maribelle looked over at Olivia, who looked at the engagement ring on Maribelle’s finger in lieu of explanation. 

“I thank you,” Maribelle said, glancing away to scan the training grounds as she said so. Sully was gesticulating violently at Kellam, who was cowering as much as someone as large as Kellam could cower. 

“I mean it, you know.” Maribelle turned her attention suddenly back to the dancer, who withered briefly under Maribelle’s gaze before straightening slightly and trying again. “I mean it about your engagement. Congratulations. It’s, um, a bit of a surprise and all – not that that’s a bad thing, I mean, but…”

Maribelle cut the woman off to save both of them from an uncomfortable conversation. “Again, I thank you.”

Olivia opened her mouth as though to reply, but shut it, cheeks flushing slightly. Only after a few more minutes did she offer her response, quietly. “You’re welcome.”

A few more minutes of silent walking and surveying the area passed before a thought suddenly occurred to Maribelle. She looked with interest at the dancer once again. “You observed much court interaction in Regna Ferox, did you not?”

“What?” The dancer blinked. “Um, well, I suppose so. I don’t know if I paid lots of attention.”

“Well, perhaps the subtleties would have been lost on you…” Maribelle trailed off, examining the dancer again. “Yet even so, you once danced for the court many times, did you not?”

“Um. Yes.” Olivia looked rather as though she was scared of where Maribelle was going with this.

“I see.” Maribelle nodded slowly. “And thus you are familiar with the basic reasons that a noble marriage is arranged?”

“Well… Are they hard and fast rules?” Olivia asked. “I mean, Basilio and Flavia aren’t… Feroxi customs are different than Ylissean ones.”

“This is of course true,” Maribelle acknowledged. “Even so, I do believe that the court nobles themselves do follow similar traditions in marriage.”

“Yes…” Olivia trailed off, looking to the sky. “I mean. No, you’re right. Yes.”

“Well then.” Maribelle nodded smartly. “Thus, I can theorize that you do know the rules, loose as they may be.”

“Yes, I suppose so.” Olivia blinked at her before sliding her eyes to the right. “Um, I think I can practice in the strategy tent. It looks empty.”

“I know for a fact that it isn't, darling. Robin and my husband are discussing strategy in it.” Maribelle grasped the dancer’s arm and threaded it through her own. “However, I am sure the tents nearer to the edge of the encampment will be more empty.”

“Right.” Olivia looked at her trapped arm in barely concealed dismay. “Um.”

“As I was saying,” Maribelle pressed on, ignoring the dancer’s expression, “I am curious as to your opinion – informal, of course, especially considering your position – about the marriage. Your true opinion.”

“Opinion?” Olivia looked even more fixedly out to the assorted tents. “I don’t think I’m in any position to –”

“Darling.” Maribelle stopped fully, forcing the woman to finally look her in the eyes, although even then Olivia quickly stared at her thin dancing slippers. “I am being forced by the arrangement – Lissa being his sister, of course – to ask someone else’s opinion, someone who is familiar with courts. Petty favor though this may be, I do wish for your opinion.”

“Why do you want to know? This… um, if you’d let me say so, I mean, I think this isn’t like you.” Olivia spoke to her shoes, the tip of her nose pinkening as she did so.

“Of course it isn’t.” Maribelle frowned. “And thus I expect you, as an emissary of the Feroxi court, as a fellow Shepherd, and as a fellow woman, to keep your silence after this conversation is over.” 

“Well… y-yes.” The woman was still flicking her gaze between a rock on the ground between them, the tips of Maribelle’s shoes, and her own slippers.

“That being settled,” Maribelle pressed on, grasping Olivia’s arm tightly and causing her to look up again, “I will give your question a suitable response. I ask because I am aware that you have seen the look of love on many men, most in response to your dancing, which, even I will admit, is a wonderful display, especially for one of lower birth.”

Olivia blinked, mouth pulling into a grimace but her cheeks flushing as dark as her hair. “Thank you?”

“Of course.” Maribelle waved a hand dismissively. “What I mean to say is – you likely have seen court marriages fail or flourish. This concerns me less; doubtless my marriage will flourish, as I refuse to let it fail. However. I would like to know of an outside opinion. What do you believe will happen?”

“Happen?” Olivia’s voice was barely audible.

“To the marriage. In the marriage.” Maribelle felt her pulse quicken as she spoke the words, but continued to direct as dispassionate of an expression as she could give to Olivia. As though the marriage was a science, an experiment to be judged after its completion, like one of Miriel’s little tests. That was an easy way to think about it.

“I don’t know…” Olivia wavered, her eyes wide as a deer’s but directed at Maribelle’s side instead of her face. “I don’t think I’m in any position to judge.”

“Olivia.” Maribelle’s tone caused the pink-haired dancer to snap her attention back to her. “I ask a favor, and I ask your honest opinion. Please. Do not make me leverage some sort of royal command. I need to know how an outsider would view our marriage – public opinion is extremely important within royal marriages.”

“Well, if you put it that way… um.” Olivia shifted slightly, but cleared her throat, two little spots of pink welling up on her cheeks like inkblots spreading across a page. “I guess that I think that you two are sort of compatible. You’re nobleborn, and that’s generally important in a royal marriage.”

“Generally?” Maribelle scoffed. “I would say extremely.”

“Yes.” Olivia halted, bit her lip. “Um, I also think that you’re both a little strong-willed.”

“What?” Maribelle frowned, and Olivia arched backwards at her glare. “You’re saying you think we would fight often?”

“Well, I’m sure that’s not the case, but, um, if I was at court, and you two were there, I think that’s what Basilio would, um, say.” Olivia fidgeted. 

Maribelle’s lips pinched together: she was getting the distinct impression that Olivia had found a way of saying what she had wanted to say without making it seem like it was her opinion.

The dancer tilted her head slightly so a piece of pink hair fell across her shoulder. “I think Basilio would say that you two are… probably going to get along. I don’t know.” 

“You don’t know?” Maribelle crossed her arms as best she could while still holding her parasol aloft.

“Well… No one can know, can they?” Olivia shifted uncomfortably, still managing to make the movement somewhat graceful. “Um, I guess I think Basilio would know that you two would probably try hard enough at it that it will work. But… um.” Her eyes widened and she immediately looked away as her nose pinkened with her cheeks.

“What?” Maribelle’s pulse quickened again. “You think I am reluctant?”

“What?” Olivia swung around to face Maribelle. “Um, what?” 

Maribelle bit her own tongue, feeling her own face flush. Fie on it all. She cleared her throat, and then, realizing there was really no way to remedy the error, she swung the parasol down and bound it quickly up again, placing it neatly under her arm. Olivia watched the motion silently, eyes wide but her face no longer red.

“Well.” Maribelle cleared her throat again and tossed her hair backwards, flicking a curl behind her shoulder. “I suppose I should ask.”

Olivia blinked a few times. “I’m sorry?”

Maribelle pursed her lips. “I suppose I should ask about a rumor I have been hearing.”

“Rumor?” The dancer echoed softly, one hand raising slightly up to her face.

“Yes.” Maribelle straightened her shoulders. Marriage was an experiment, a business deal; Olivia was the objective observer. Hypothesis: Olivia, being a common observer and a peasant by blood, would likely provide an objective yet possibly relevant opinion about such things, especially considering her past position in a royal court. 

“I have been hearing that, as a whole, people have been saying I am – or, perhaps, appear to be – a rather reluctant wife. As you have experience in the court, I had hoped to hear your opinion on the matter.” Maribelle paused, waited, and forced her shoulders to remain upright and back. She ignored the sudden rush of blood in her ears, the lingering wish to suddenly hide her face behind a non-existent fan or parasol. 

Olivia’s mouth was slightly open, showing two front teeth. “Um.” Maribelle blinked a few times, lips tightly together, hands clenched. All of the sudden, the dancer’s expression softened. “Oh, Maribelle.”

“What?” Maribelle managed to ask before the girl in front of her suddenly gave her a look of compassion that could have reduced Frederick to a weeping mess. 

“Um, I don’t think you should be so worried about that.” Filler aside, Olivia’s voice was sure; her hand suddenly went to Maribelle’s arm and clasped it in her own. Her eyes finally met Maribelle’s without any discomfort. “I mean, if you were worried about that… I think maybe you should just ask Chrom about it, about what he thinks, or maybe just ignore it altogether.”

“Ask Chrom?” Maribelle suddenly pulled her arm out of Olivia’s grip, and the dancer recoiled as though slapped. 

Blinking, she shook her head abruptly, her arm still raised as though to ward off any further attempt from Olivia to grasp hold of her again. “Hold on. This is for the state of the crown – how we are perceived as a couple deeply impacts our people’s faith in us. Chrom’s opinion is irrelevant.”

Olivia’s eyebrows raised in confusion. “Irrelevant? I thought…” 

“Thought what?” Maribelle ignored the rising heat in her cheeks, in her stomach. “I need an objective opinion, Olivia, not personal comfort! As though I worry about it for myself! A queen must stand for more than just herself.”

“But…” The girl looked to the side. “I mean… You’re right, of course, but –”

“But nothing!” Maribelle flicked her parasol open once again in a single motion, raised it above her head with a flourish. “Your prior comments were somewhat helpful. However, I was hoping for something more useful.” 

“Well, um, doesn’t your comfort also matter?” Olivia spoke hesitantly, biting her lip.

“Comfort! In a court marriage?” Maribelle huffed, cheeks burning like the coals in the furnace she had thrown her mother’s book into. “The priority within any court marriage is keeping up appearances. I would have thought you would have known that.”

“But –” 

“I must go, Olivia. I wish you luck with your routine.” Maribelle swung around, picking up her dress to avoid skimming the bottom of it against the ground as she spun. “Good day.”

“Um.” A quiet cough came from behind her, and Maribelle could almost see the girl flush. “Goodbye, then.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In my secret heart of hearts, Olivia is just a pink-haired (and shy) Aerith. Hence her apparent ability to reduce Frederick to tears. ((Have I mentioned I adore shy characters?)) Also please – read her supports with Maribelle if you haven’t. The A Support is absolutely hilarious.


	9. The Plan

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is very intermediary. It’s been ages since I wrote in this perspective. Somehow, I feel like I’ve lost Maribelle’s head. Please forgive me if she sounds off; I’m trying my best.

  
  
It was only when she was halfway to the center of camp once again that Maribelle finally dropped the edge of her skirt to the ground, the churn of her stomach finally too insistent to ignore. She pressed her gloved hand into her eyes, feeling the heat rise to her cheeks. 

This was a problem she would have to bring to her husband, and she knew it. And – she felt her stomach roll within her – it had perhaps been a mistake to go to Olivia with it. Not to mention Virion’s words to her before. Both were well meaning, perhaps, but any interference with what was clearly her responsibility was maddening. It had been none of Virion’s business to discuss such matters with her – to question her and Chrom’s relationship! 

Not to mention Olivia’s complete misunderstanding of the situation. Maribelle flushed again, feeling the pink-haired girl’s touch on her arm again. She had likely thought Maribelle was concerned about Chrom’s opinion of her. Perish the thought – a marriage was not built on anything similar to love. No – her concern was with the public. 

“Maribelle!” 

She jumped, every muscle in her body tensing. Chrom. She pushed her parasol under her arm, pulled her gloves so the ends were straight lines, and looked up calmly as her husband approached, Falchion unsheathed but carried loosely in his hand.

“There you are. What were you doing all the way out here?” Chrom’s face had a slight sheen of sweat on it, and the undermost layer of his hair was sticking to his forehead.

“Oh, nothing, really.” Maribelle pulled her lips into a thin smile. “I was merely accompanying Olivia to a tent she could practice within.”

“Ah.” Chrom peered behind her, as though trying to make out a pink-haired dancer somewhere in the distance. “I didn’t know you two were close.” 

“In all honesty, we aren’t, really.” Maribelle pushed her lips together tightly. The ground was packed dirt, the ends of her skirt lightly skimming the tips of the grass. When she looked up, she realized that Chrom was eyeing her. 

“Are you all right?” 

Maribelle looked at the part of Falchion that wasn’t reflecting the sun with blinding brightness, near the grip, where the sword split in two. “I am afraid that now is not really the time.” 

Chrom frowned, sheathing his sword as though to distract her from it. “What do you mean?”

“I mean to say that – this is not something I would like to discuss while in the middle of camp.” Maribelle bit her lips together. “It’s rather – it’s something I should not like to have someone overhear.”

“No one’s around.” Chrom was still frowning. “What is it?” 

“Did you finish your conversation with Robin?” Maribelle tried, looking in the direction of the strategy tent.

“Yes.” Chrom folded his arms. “Maribelle, what is it? No one is going to hear us. And, honestly, there isn’t much I wouldn’t trust the Shepherds with.”

“It’s…” Maribelle paused. “I was speaking to Virion earlier. He informed me there has been gossip about us.” 

Chrom’s face darkened instantly. “Well. When is there not gossip?”

“He was saying that…” Maribelle bit her lip again, crossed her arms tightly. “Someone must have overheard us arguing. He told me that people were gossiping about us arguing.”

Chrom blinked at her. “Well?”

“Well?” she repeated, impatiently, mouth tightening.

His head tilted to the side, appraising her. She had seen him look at a set of silver swords the same way, and she snorted, frustrated. “Maribelle, is that it? That’s what you don’t want anyone to hear?”

“What do you mean, ‘that’s all?’” Maribelle huffed. Chrom sighed deeply. “That is gossip we cannot afford to have circling the court!”

“To be honest, Maribelle, I’ve heard a lot worse.” Chrom didn’t exactly look irritated, but she recognized his tone of voice – he was nearly there. “People always talk. Just let them talk. If you hear anything about them trying to usurp the throne, let me know. Actually, first let Frederick know, and then let me know.”

“How can you be so – so nonchalant!” Maribelle fumed. “Our reputation is on the line.”

“People always argue. It’s not something I’m worried I’ll lose the throne over.” Chrom met her gaze directly. “I think you’re worrying too much about this.”

“Virion was very concerned!” Maribelle attempted, knowing as soon as the words passed her lips that the words would do little to change his mind.

“Appearances are good to keep up, but they’re not my top priority.” Chrom turned to face her. “Virion lives and dies and practically _breathes_ appearances. I know you’re much the same way, and I know you’re worried about this.”

Maribelle opened her mouth, but Chrom cut in again. “Look. I get that you’re actually concerned. And I get that you’re worried about it because you think it has huge implications for all the rest of our lives. But it’s fine.”

He paused again, and Maribelle seized her chance. “The very fact that people consider themselves able to gossip about such things means that they have low opinions of us! You are the exalt – people cannot have low opinions of us, or of our marriage.”

“Maribelle.” Chrom took two paces forward so he was directly in front of her. She looked up. “Just – believe me. I think we can let this go.”

With great effort, Maribelle took a deep breath instead of instantly responding. She clamped her teeth together and stared at the button on Chrom’s uniform, just above his navel. 

Sentences flashed through her mind; she breathed until they were less furious and more rational, ignoring Chrom’s insistent gaze. Several more seconds passed. To Maribelle, it was both an hour and a blink of an eye, yet she was aware that she was letting the pause drag on. Taking one final, calm breath, she steeled herself. “Chrom.”

“Yes?” His blue eyes bored into her face. She noted the corners of his mouth, turned down; the wrinkle between his eyebrows, deepening; the shadows his hair cast on his face.

She looked at his button again. “I believe very strongly in the power of appearances. And I know that you are not as… fervent in that belief as I.

“However.” Maribelle looked up at him, met his eyes directly, and continued. “I am not worried about this because I think it will encroach upon your throne. I worry about this because I know that idle talk is difficult for a noble – especially for an exalt. It would be far easier to address the gossip… acknowledge it exists, and take measures to ensure it does not continue.”

“Measures?” Chrom echoed, his eyes wary.

“Yes. But, before that.” She steeled herself once again to do one of her least favorite things. “I am aware that I somewhat… lost control of myself. I snapped at you, and… I apologize.” 

Chrom made a noise somewhere between a cough and an intake of breath. He blinked at her. “What?”

Maribelle huffed, the repressed anger boiling up within her once again. “Please, do not make me repeat myself!”

“No – I’m sorry, Maribelle. I thank you for your apology.” He smiled, and Maribelle felt a surge of heat jolt through her chest. “I accept it.”

“I thank you,” Maribelle said. The words, which were supposed to be crisp and polite, came out rather shaky. “Now. About the measures.”

“What do you suggest, then?” Chrom wiped his forehead with the back of his gloved hand.

Maribelle shut her eyes, deep in thought. “First: we need to continue to project an image of marital perfection.” 

“Impossible.” Maribelle’s eyes flew open. Chrom was shaking his head, lips curled downwards. 

“What do you mean?” Maribelle resisted the urge to cover her chest with her hands as though to ward away the word. 

“There’s not such a thing. It's useless to even think about creating that sort of image.” Chrom frowned deeper. “Besides. Even if there were some kind of perfection we could reach, there would still be gossip. That doesn’t change, regardless of the circumstances. You know that.”

“I do know that. Best of many, I dare say.” Maribelle recalled hours spent in the court holding back tears desperately as those her own age scorned her, flashing smiles hidden behind lace-dressed hands. 

“Then.” Chrom waited expectantly for her next idea.

“Then…” she echoed slowly. “Then, we should plan to at least show them that we care not for their petty words.”

“That sounds better.” Chrom nodded. “After all, it is the truth.”

Maribelle’s lips pursed. 

His mouth quirked upwards at her expression. “Well. Almost the truth, maybe?”

“No. It is the truth.” Maribelle tossed her head, pushing away lingering doubts of whispering court ladies, of the irritating noblemen who had bothered Chrom when they had first announced their marriage. “We are, after all, in the right here.”

“Of course.” Chrom smiled. Although his eyes were warm, Maribelle had the distinct impression that she was being quietly teased. She cleared her throat, somewhat miffed, but carried on.

“The best way to show our disdain for their words - to strengthen our image,” Maribelle slowly said, waiting for the idea to come to her, “would be…”

“Milord!” A familiar voice. Maribelle jolted upright and Chrom turned to face the approaching woman quickly. Long red hair fluttered in the wind, obstructed only by the wings that she had fixed as pins just above her ears. The sun flashed off her polished armor, and the lance she was holding slipped slightly in her fingers when she saw who was standing behind Chrom. “Oh! And – and Maribelle.”

“Good day, Cordelia,” Maribelle forced a smile at the pegasus knight, fully aware the pause in the woman’s gait had been due to her presence. 

“And to you both as well,” Cordelia nodded. The grin that had been visible on her face seconds earlier was gone, but she continued forward until she stood directly in front of them. Maribelle had to look upwards to keep smiling steadfastly at her, and she ignored the lingering irritation that she had to do so. Cordelia had always made her seem somewhat… short.

“Milord, Vaike has been looking for you. He says that he wishes to finish your sparring session.” 

Chrom blinked, and then a determined smirk spread across his face. “Aha. I suppose he just forgot to mention the battle has already ended in my victory?” 

“I thought as much, milord.” Cordelia’s mouth twitched. Maribelle recognized the expression on her face all too well, having experienced it often when she was younger – a failed attempt to smile. Her stomach dropped, and she could not help but drop her gaze as well. Everyone had known that the woman held a resolute, unwavering, almost obsessive affection for Chrom. Maribelle swallowed.

“Ah. Well. Perhaps I shall have to put him in his place again, then!” Chrom flexed his gloved hand and grinned at the training grounds. 

Maribelle coughed, felt the burn of Cordelia’s gaze on her, faltered, and then forged ahead. “Excuse me.” She forced herself to look at Chrom and ignore the pegasus knight’s stare. “I believe we had not quite finished our conversation. Perhaps your sparring can wait for a few minutes?”

“Oh. Yes.” Chrom dropped his hand and rested it on the hilt of his sword. “Right. I will be at the training grounds in the moment.” 

“Of course,” Cordelia said. Maribelle had to close her eyes. Her tone was cheery, light. The self-same as when she had sustained an injury from a Risen archer, had been rescued by Libra, and had been brightly smiling as though the tone of voice would distract them from the bandages around her waist. “Forgive me for intruding.”

“It is nothing,” Maribelle said quickly. Cordelia glanced at her, and Maribelle almost flinched at the woman’s eyes on her own. She dropped her gaze to her finger and knew instinctively that Cordelia was also looking at it – the ring, the tell-tale crest. Maribelle covered her left hand with her right without realizing she was doing so.

Cordelia made a strange approximation of coughing noise. “I should go.” 

“What?” Chrom blinked. “Ah – yes. Please tell Vaike I’ll meet him there in a minute.” He paused and then grinned. “Tell him he has about five minutes to get last-minute practice in before he loses, again.”

“Of course, milord.” She paused, bowed her head in Maribelle’s direction. “Milady.” 

Maribelle’s mouth opened slightly in surprise, but before she could say anything, the woman had already gracefully spun on her heel and begun to walk away. Her hair flickered in the light as she walked, her lance tapping the ground. Maribelle pulled her gaze away, her mouth suddenly as sour as when she had tried lemon in her tea and despised it.

“Sorry about that.” Chrom turned his gaze back to Maribelle. “Where were we?”

She blinked at him, suddenly uneasy. “Did you… Did you really not notice?”

“Notice?” Chrom raised an eyebrow at her. “Notice what?”

Maribelle began to rub at the bridge of her nose. “Dear gods.” She felt a rush of something akin to pity, but one that only exacerbated the acid taste on her tongue.

“What?” He looked genuinely concerned now.

“No. I will spare you the knowledge.” She straightened. Now was not the time to fall prey to meaningless thoughts, things that would do nothing to improve her or solve the situation at hand.

“What knowledge?” Grimacing, Maribelle surveyed the man she now deemed the thickest man in Ylisse bar possibly only Vaike. He only looked more confused. “What?”

“Heed it no longer.” Maribelle waved the entire affair away with one sweep of her hand. “Let us continue. I have reached a solution.”

“Ah. Let’s hear it.” He waited expectantly.

“You may dislike this,” she began slowly, recalling an event as children when Lissa had swept into her arms and wailed that her brother was refusing to leave his room for a court dance, “but I believe Ylisse has not held a formal affair in quite some time.”

“What? This is no time for such frivolity!” Chrom suddenly straightened, regarded her with a mild glare. 

“Frivolity such as sparring?” Maribelle asked drily, pointedly glancing at his hand, still loosely wrapped around Falchion’s hilt.

“Sparring clears the mind and strengthens the body,” Chrom retorted, folding his arms. “It is far from frivolity.”

“Do not reject the idea merely because you dislike dances such as those,” Maribelle reprimanded him. 

“Dislike them?” Chrom frowned. “That’s irrelevant. The reason Ylisse has not held one in some time is because we have lately been at war, as I am sure you will recall.”

“I recall it well, milord, as I was recently fighting in it,” Maribelle said pointedly. “And yet that war has recently concluded, has it not?”

“Please, don’t call me milord. I thought you had stopped doing that.” 

“Forgive me,” Maribelle said. “And yet – there is no more objection to be had with the idea of a formal affair. Indeed – the war is over. This should be a time of celebration, should it not?”

“We do not have money to waste on such things,” Chrom said. “The presentation of our marriage alone was a large affair. It pleased the city, and it satisfied the nobles for a while.”

“Pish.” She shook her head. “Not for long. Besides. This – much as I dislike the idea – would be a good way to satisfy those around us that our marriage is healthy.”

Chrom rolled his eyes. “The very idea of appealing to them is sickening.”

“Thank you for your honest opinion; however, unless you have another idea, I can see no better way to solve this problem.” 

Chrom looked at the training grounds wistfully. “Maybe we could send Sully in to convince them by force.”

“D-Dear me.” Maribelle was not entirely successful at repressing the sudden urge to laugh, and she coughed to hide it. 

Chrom turned back to look at her, grinning. “Well? I think that’s a better idea.”

His smile proved infectious. Maribelle couldn’t repress her amusement as she shook her head. “As much as that idea may appeal, Chrom, I think our best course of action does lie with what you may deem frivolity.”

“You enjoy such things, don’t you?” Chrom eyed her. 

“Well enough.” Maribelle avoided mentioning that the last time she had been to a formal dance, she had left in tears due to one of her parents’ ‘marriage prospects.’ “And, besides, I know at least one person who will enjoy themselves.”

“Lissa,” Chrom filled in the blank dutifully. “But the idea would be more appealing if I knew you genuinely would enjoy it, you know.”

“I… am sure that I will.” She smiled. 

Chrom nodded. “Then the matter is settled.”

“Besides…” Maribelle paused, feeling heat creep up her cheeks. “If I may be so bold, I dare say I would wish to dance with my husband.”

The quick brush of his gloved hand across his face to run a hand through his hair did not quite mask the sudden reddening of his ears. Chrom cleared his throat, but met her eyes. “Yes. I think that is probably… I would look forward to that.” 

He immediately turned his head to the training grounds again, but Maribelle couldn’t help the sudden feeling that, as the storybooks said, her heart had missed a beat. He glanced at her briefly, but dropped her gaze almost as soon as he had met it.

She smiled at him, ignoring both her sudden flush and his apparent discomposure, and stepped towards him and the training grounds. “Shall we?”

“We what?” Chrom looked at her in surprise.

“Go to the grounds? I had heard you had a match to settle.” Maribelle allowed her smile to unfold a little more, to become a touch mischievous, allowed herself to take his arm. He looked down at her for a second and then grinned.

“Ah, yes. That match.” He pulled her a little bit closer, and her dress – her hips – brushed his. His smile pulled the breath from her lips in much the same way as the contact did. “If you don’t mind watching Vaike get crushed, of course, I can permit you accompanying me.”

“I don’t need permission,” Maribelle said, the edge of her words broken by the warmth that emanated from his arm, his side, pressed against hers. “But I should be glad to watch.”

“Truly?” He began to walk, and Maribelle did her best to watch her step and not focus on the man beside her. “I had thought you disliked our little – what was the word you used – our frivolity.”

“Well.” She tossed her head slightly, ignoring the fact that a curl caught on his arm as she did so. “I suppose that if you permit my frivolity, I could possibly allow yours.”

“Ah, of course. A fair trade.” Chrom was still smiling when she glanced up at him. “Then, Maribelle, prepare yourself to see a man truly defeated. Vaike will be furious when he loses.”

“Hmph.” Maribelle snorted. “I doubt I will feel much pity towards him over that.”

Chrom laughed. “No, I doubt you would.”


	10. The Frivolity

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When you take a page out of _Pride and Prejudice_ (because you can), this is what you get. At least Lissa isn’t running away to elope with Wickham? In case you were curious, Maribelle has all the pride and all the prejudice, but Chrom doesn’t have the sense or the sensibility. I’m cracking myself up over here. (Please prepare for a monster of a chapter. Hope you have time to kill.)

  
  
“Oh my gosh!” Lissa’s squeal was loud, and it was all the louder as it was directly in Maribelle’s ear. One of her blonde pigtails (for, despite the occasion, the princess had demanded they were left in place) tickled Maribelle’s nose. She did her best to not sneeze on her sister-in-law.

The girl pulled away from Maribelle and looked around in amazement again. “I haven’t seen it like this – well, actually, I don’t think I have seen it like this,” she confided quietly. “I mean, there were small things when Emm was exalt, but nothing big.” 

Chrom smiled wanly at her side. “Yes, well.” The rest of his sentence was rather obvious to Maribelle – yes, well, he would have preferred this occasion to be small as well.

“And Chrom! I haven’t seen you in formal attire in a long time.” Lissa turned her gaze to her brother, eyeing him speculatively. “Yep. Looks weird.”

“Thanks, Lissa. You’re too kind.” Chrom’s expression mimicked that of Frederick, who was dutifully standing just far enough away from them to be cautious but not in range of eavesdropping. 

She laughed brightly. “Oh, have you seen Cordelia?” 

Maribelle’s smile dropped for a split-second. “No, I’m afraid we have not.” She rearranged her gloves, wishing for her parasol but well aware the hall was not the place for such things.

“Ah, me neither.” Lissa frowned, pulling at the edge of her royal blue sleeve. “She was invited, as the head of the pegasus knights, wasn’t she?”

“We invited the Shepherds,” Chrom said, frowning. “So yes.”

“It was mostly a formality,” Maribelle cut in. “Darling, don’t you know that? You were the one pestering me about who was coming.”

“Yeah, but.” Lissa’s lips curled to the side as she glanced around the rest of the hall appraisingly. “I don’t see any of them here.”

“Most of the Shepherds are busy.” Chrom’s expression wearied a touch more and Maribelle pursed her lips, well aware Chrom found ‘busy’ a far more appealing state than his current position. “The Risen are still multiplying somehow.”

“Urgh. Gross.” Lissa made a face briefly. “Besides. Are you both holding up well?” 

Chrom shut his eyes. “Fine.”

Maribelle smiled at Lissa bracingly. “It’s better than he thinks, darling.”

“Hardly,” Chrom muttered under his breath, still audible to both women. 

“Chrom!” There was a thud from under the hem of Lissa’s dress.

“Darling, you know it’s not ladylike to stamp one’s feet,” Maribelle cut in quickly before Lissa could say any more. “Besides, you could ruin your lovely dress.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Lissa waved the thought away easily. “Chrom, you should at least try to enjoy yourself.”

Chrom smiled tiredly again. “I know, Lissa. I’m trying.”

“Three separate people have asked him for money in the past fifteen minutes,” Maribelle confided quietly to the girl, pulling her by the elbow so they grew close enough for their dresses to rustle. 

“That’s horrible,” Lissa whispered, glancing briefly at Chrom, who was watching the dance with only a thin veneer of politeness drawn across his obvious impatience. 

“I expected at least the court to have at least sham of propriety, especially while they dance at our expense,” Maribelle hissed. “I fear we will have to bring Frederick in to wield them away with a battle axe.”

Lissa snorted. “Oh my gods. We should. Can I ask?”

“No.” Maribelle shook her heads decisively, feeling a small smile play across her face at Lissa’s quiet mirth. “No, no. But I do have a favor to ask.”

“Anything,” Lissa volunteered quickly.

“Please stand here, darling. Or, rather, go join Frederick quickly.” Maribelle eyed the great knight. “I doubt anyone would approach you with him at your side.”

“What? What if I want to dance?” Lissa quickly drew away, frowning. 

“I don’t trust anyone here,” Maribelle said decisively. “This court is comprised of wolves, not men. Their dealings with Chrom merely have assured me of the fact.”

“Don't be silly, Maribelle.” Lissa scrunched up her nose. “I’m perfectly capable of handing a court gentleman. If anything happens, you point them in the direction of Chrom’s sword.”

Chrom suddenly turned to them. “What? Has someone been bothering you?” 

“No!” Lissa frowned again. “You both need to stop worrying about me. You should go and dance. Enjoy yourselves.”

“If someone has been bothering you, Lissa, you need to tell me.” Chrom folded his arms.

“No, no one has been bothering me!” She rolled her eyes. “I promise to stand by Frederick for the span of one song as long as you’ll both go and dance and actually try to have fun.”

Maribelle turned to look at Chrom in a way that she thought was covert, but ended in her catching his eye anyways. He nodded slowly at her, and Maribelle hesitantly took a breath in to say something. He beat her to it.

“She’s right,” Chrom said, holding out a hand. “We’re here. We may as well make the best of it.”

“Chrom! A lady wants to be asked to dance, not told it’s the only appealing alternative in the situation!” Lissa crossed her thin arms, lips curling in a way that hinted at a pout. 

Maribelle repressed a smile with difficulty at Lissa’s indignation. Chrom coughed, looked to the side and tried again.

He held a hand out at her again, a slight flush playing over his cheeks. “If it would please you to dance.” 

“No, no, no, that’s not how you do it.” Lissa walked over to Chrom, pushed him to the side, and mimicked his posture and outstretched hand. She assumed a face of overbearing seriousness, and began to pronounce with great flair: “My lady Maribelle, your eyes outshine the stars and your dress is as beauteous as the night sky. Your hair must have been spun to gold by angels and your heart must be of gold as well… It would be my greatest honor to dance with you.”

“Gods, Lissa. What have you been reading?” Chrom burst out as Maribelle began to laugh, hiding her mouth with the hand that was not currently being fawned over ostentatiously by Lissa. “No one speaks like that.”

“Virion does,” Lissa said matter-of-factly, dropping Maribelle’s hand. “Besides, you could at least try to make it a question, you know.”

“I did not sit through an entire term on etiquette to have my words mocked by my sister,” Chrom muttered.

“It matters not how you say it.” Maribelle took a step in his direction, cleared her throat lightly, and ignored the widening grin on Lissa’s face. “I did say I would like to… to dance with you. So, shall we?”

Chrom looked at her in surprise. She could not help but notice the way the candelabras above them lit his face, the way his eyes looked directly into hers. His mouth tilted upwards slightly. “Of course.” 

Lissa snorted behind her and Maribelle’s shoulders stiffened, lips pursing, cheeks reddening, despite the fact that Chrom beside her was also suffering from a similar affliction. She didn’t have to look at him to know he was embarrassed. He cleared his throat. “Lissa, you said you’d go stand by Frederick.”

“Yeah, yeah, I will. Go dance, now!” she trilled. 

A soft rustling of skirts heralded her exit, and Maribelle took a breath and looked up again. Chrom smiled sheepishly at her. “I hope my dancing won’t be as much of a disappointment as the question.”

“Bite your tongue,” Maribelle said quickly. “She’s only that way because she loves you.”

“Wishes to mock me, more like.” Chrom put a hand on her back, his hand warm through his gloves and her bodice. The slightest pressure was enough to ask her to move forward wordlessly, and Maribelle did so. “I always was failing out of etiquette.”

“I’m sure you exaggerate.” Maribelle barely noticed the dancing coming to a close, the small orchestral band to the side of the center of the room halting and shuffling their packets of sheet music around, focusing instead on the warmth in her lower back.

“Sadly, I’m not.” Chrom turned to face her, releasing her back but reaching and grasping her hand instead. “I’m afraid our tutor was at her wits end with me.”

“Pish.” Maribelle shook her head indignantly. “I’m sure –”

A loud verve of stringed notes cut her off, announcing what she was almost certain was a quadrille. Chrom raised his eyebrows at her. She glanced over his shoulder at the rows forming down the center of the hall, and pulled lightly at his hand to lead him over to the end of one of the lines. He complied silently, face slightly grave at the sight of the rows of glittering court members. Maribelle pasted a smile on her face and assumed her position beside Chrom, one hand in his, waiting for the music to cue their movement. 

A couple walked up beside them, and Maribelle nodded regally at them both, feeling heat in her face but refusing to acknowledge the woman’s quiet smile that expressed far more than any amount of pointed words would. The music swelled, and Maribelle quickly turned her attention ahead of her at the row of couples in front of them, grateful for the distraction.

Chrom pulled lightly at the hand he was still grasping and she complied, walking in a circle around him in unison with everyone around them. Voice muffled by the quick pace of the orchestra, he bent slightly to her ear. “I wasn’t jesting, you know. If it gets more complicated, please lead.”

Maribelle completed her circle and curtsied lightly, turned to Chrom and grasped his hand. “I’m sure I will not have to,” she said quietly as they both walked forward to the couple directly opposite them that was promenading in their direction.

“You are certainly sure of my abilities.” As they reached the other end of the dance hall, Chrom pulled her around him again. This time, at her round’s end, he grasped her arm, one hand on hers, and they circled one another. 

Maribelle’s muscle memory was bringing back forgotten experiences, previous dances, snippets of conversation. A noble’s hands straying so far down her back that she smacked him and stormed away in a huff, an unknown lady’s kind words to her as she began to cry at the edge of the room. 

Chrom’s touch on her upper arm roused her. “Are you all right?” 

Maribelle smiled lightly. “Forgive me. I merely remember past dances.”

“With better partners, most like.” Chrom looked to the side, even while grasping her hands in his. 

“No!” Maribelle said, with more force than she had intended. She glanced to the side to see a glittering vision in green with lace gloves up to her elbows bite back a laugh and flushed. 

“Please, don’t try to be kind.” Chrom smiled wryly, blind to the couple behind them. “I learned to dance with Lissa, and she eventually forbid me from doing it because I ruined a pair of her shoes by stepping on them so frequently.”

“Believe me when I say I have had far worse partners,” Maribelle said warmly. “Truly. You are… perhaps a bit stiff, but I do not mind.”

“Stiff.” Chrom snorted. “You’re far too kind.”

She circled him once again, felt the warmth of his hands through her gloves. “I am not kind, you know. I merely speak the truth.” 

He laughed without much amusement, shifting in his formal attire in a way that suggested discomfort. “You deserve a better dancer than me, I fear.” 

Maribelle almost missed her step and had to go a beat faster to catch up. “What?”

“Lissa – I remember, you and her would dance for ages. You taught her the steps. She would come back to our lessons and trounce me with her ability.” 

“That – that really does not have anything to do with any of this,” Maribelle tried, but Chrom shook his head.

“No, really. I would avoid these things like the plague whenever Emm held one.” He reached out to spin her out. Maribelle twirled out gracefully, and then almost tripped when Chrom yanked on her arm to spin her back. The hall whirled around her and jolted to a halt with force as she collided into a warm body that, due to the dark blue formal coat that her dazed eyes fixed upon, she quickly knew was Chrom. 

He dropped her hand instantly and grasped her shoulders to inspect her. “Gods – Maribelle, I’m so sorry – are you all right?”

“I’m fine,” Maribelle insisted quickly, blinking several times but shaking him off. She ignored the slight twinge in her arm, and after pausing a second to ascertain where the dancers were, continued her steps. “Please, let us continue.” 

“Damn.” Chrom’s quiet curse did not escape her ears, though she thought it had meant to. Maribelle pursed her lips, aware that there were eyes on them both, but held her shoulders back, her arms light as a feather as her tutor had always instructed. 

A few seconds later, after silent movement, Chrom spoke again. “I’m so sorry, Maribelle.”

“It really is nothing.” Maribelle turned to face him. “I promise you, I have had much worse. I have survived a battlefield, after all.”

“Well. Yes.” Chrom grimaced. “I doubt you expected to sustain injuries in a dance hall.”

Maribelle bit her lip, watching his face but uncertain how to respond. The music swelled around them, but Chrom appeared impervious to it – he moved mechanically, ignoring the beat and those around them. His eyes looked somewhere slightly behind her, and she could not help but notice the flush creeping up his neck.

“Chrom,” she said. He looked briefly at her and winced. She paused, discomforted, but pushed on. “Chrom, I assure you, I have sustained no injury.”

Instead of responding, Chrom’s gaze suddenly rested on something behind her. Maribelle resisted the urge to crane her neck to see where he was staring, pursing her lips to prevent herself from speaking once again. With some difficulty, he pulled his gaze back to her and then, after opening his mouth briefly, looked at the space between their feet.

“What is it you wish to say?” Maribelle said, feeling her impatience rise. 

“Just… what I had said earlier.” Chrom released one of her hands so she could walk around him once again. When she was directly behind him, he spoke again. “You deserve a more skilled partner.”

“Not at all.” Maribelle frowned at him as she walked to his front again. “You are acting ridiculous. You are my husband. I should, and I shall, dance with you.”

“And yet…” Chrom paused, eyes unreadable. “If I was not, I doubt you would. I… This is an obligation.”

“Ob–” Maribelle stopped herself from echoing his words involuntarily. “Chrom, what – That is not what I think about this.”

“I am not quite the court gentleman,” Chrom said lowly. “I know.”

“Do not be ridiculous.” Maribelle grasped his hand with what was likely more force than necessary. “I care not.”

“Lissa – perhaps she was right. You deserve a gentleman who can speak to you like Virion, one of these noblemen.”

Maribelle almost broke the dance, but restrained herself and settled for seething. “Virion!” 

“What?” Chrom started at seeing her expression. 

“You truly think Virion – that insufferable lout, that – that embarrassment to all men of noble birth!” Maribelle recalled words that dripped honey and shuddered. “You think I would prefer to dance with him!” 

“What?” Chrom repeated, looking rather as though she had hit him in the head with the blunt edge of an iron sword. 

“Bite your tongue.” Maribelle fumed silently for a few more steps before calming herself enough to speak. 

“Was she wrong?” Chrom met her gaze, his expression serious. 

“Lissa knows me well, but I assure you, no one knows me better than myself.” Maribelle took a deep breath. “Rest assured, I would wish to do nothing less than dance with that rogue.”

“Rogue?” Chrom’s brow contracted. “He is a little flighty, I guess…”

“Flighty is the least of it.” Maribelle remembered where they were and cleared her throat lightly, lowered her voice. “Regardless. Be certain of the fact, Chrom, I much prefer words that do not mindlessly flatter all who hear them.”

“But – the dancing,” Chrom tried, still evaluating her expression with intent.

“Pish. I do not evaluate men by how they can turn and grasp at my hand.” Maribelle shook her head decisively. 

“I – of course not.” Chrom blinked, but his mouth turned upwards slightly into a smile. Her stomach dropped uncomfortably at the sight, and her chest contracted much like it had when a Plegian soldier had knocked her off her horse. “I did not mean to imply so.”

“I shall forget it,” Maribelle said, unable to keep a small smile off her face, one that matched his own. 

A violin rang out, warning that the dance was at its close, and Chrom, still holding her hand, bowed in unison with the other noblemen. She waited until he had straightened to curtsy deeply, and then rose to meet his smile.

“Shall we go back to our position? I’m sure Frederick has been frantic looking for us.”

Maribelle shook her head. “He is truly a loyal steward."

Chrom made a huffing noise that, as she turned, betrayed silent laughter. “I don’t really want to correct you.”

“What requires correction?” Maribelle frowned at him. Chrom shook his head at her, still grinning widely. 

“No, it’s nothing.” He interlaced his arm with hers and began to walk in the direction of their previous position. Frederick’s suit of armor, ever present even in the most formal of affairs, stood out amongst the chiffon and satin, and it was easy to navigate through the crowd.

As soon as they had come within hearing distance, Lissa grinned widely and nudged Frederick (or attempted to, as the man did not budge and she merely ended up tapping his armor plate). “They’ve arrived! My sentence is over. I’m going to go dance.”

“Wait,” Chrom said quickly, releasing Maribelle’s arm. “Hold on, Lissa.” 

The blonde girl only quickened her pace. “Hope you had fun!” she called behind her.

“Wait, Lissa! Give me one second,” Chrom said quickly to Maribelle. She nodded, watching him try to navigate the crowd. A man dressed in ostentatious deep green quickly accosted him, a dour-looking Frederick at his heels, and Lissa slipped away.

“My lady?”

Maribelle turned on her heel swiftly to face a man she was certain she had never seen before. Young, well-dressed, a smile oily enough to wax her riding boots. “I’m sorry?”

“Pardon the impertinence, my lady,” he began smoothly, “but I wished to briefly introduce myself and offer my most humble congratulations about your recent marriage.”

“Of course. To whom do I owe the pleasure?” she asked politely, her gaze skimming his lapel and then his hands in order to glimpse a crest that might orient her as to his family name.

“With the greatest respect, I am Lord Lorent Powel, milady. Please accept my congratulations – I am most pleased to hear of your ascension to the throne.” Powel. Maribelle placed the family – northwestern, near Ferox. 

"I thank you, then.” Maribelle allowed him to take her hand and brush his lips over her knuckle, and then frowned when he took rather longer than necessary. The man looked up, smiled charmingly, still bent over her, and then straightened. He did not release her hand.

“I am sure you have heard of the Powel estate, my lady. The late exalt, Naga rest her soul, was not fond of visiting the noble houses, but I may dare hope to see you there. We are told the gardens are most beautiful in the fall, of course, and I am certain that you would enjoy them.” 

Maribelle kept her smile present while inwardly souring. Dear gods, what impudence, what flowery language. She caught the thought and paused for a second – this language was normal in the court. When had it become strange to her?

“I have never been, but, of course, I am sure I would have to speak to my husband about this. We have no plans to visit the royal houses currently – at the moment, we wish to focus on rebuilding Ylisse.” Speech complete, Maribelle cleared her throat meaningfully and looked at her hand.

The man surely noticed, but he did not let go. Maribelle pulled slightly against his grip, but the man continued to smile, sweet as sugared almonds. “Ah, I am wounded to hear that. I am certain, milady, that you could perhaps make time in your schedule to visit us. I know that the life as an exalt may keep your husband busy, but I know we would be most pleased if you could drop by, even for a day or two.”

“At this point in time, Lord Powel, we wish to tend to our kingdom. Now, I must ask you to kindly release my hand.” Maribelle allowed a crack of irritation to run through her voice, and pulled gently on her hand once more.

The man raised her hand up to just above her lips once again. “Milady, I –”

“I believe she asked you to let her go.” Chrom’s voice came from behind her, as firm as the snap of a whip. The man instantly released her, smiling as sweetly as before. Chrom glowered at the man, one of his hands just above where Falchion would normally lay. 

“Milord, I meant no offense,” the noble began.

“Of course not.” Chrom’s eyes narrowed. “Nor do I when I say we must leave. Now.” 

He took Maribelle’s arm and began to walk them in a beeline towards Frederick. She winced slightly at his grip. His expression was drawn.

“Does that happen often?” he asked, still marching forward, not quite looking at her.

“People will come up and try to gain the attentions of the new queen.” Maribelle flicked a stray curl with her hand, trying to ignore the pressure on her upper arm.

“No. I mean… that.” He waved a hand in a quick, abrupt gesture as though this would elucidate his meaning.

“Refusing to let go of my hand? No, thankfully. While I have not quite found the court as polite as I would wish, I do not normally have to deal with insistent fools who have vices for hands.” She snorted.

“How dare he.” Chrom’s expression darkened further. “I was right there.”

“It should matter little where you are,” Maribelle replied swiftly. “But believe me when I say I thoroughly agree with you that he truly dared more than his station.”

“Gods. This is why I hate this court.” Chrom’s voice was quiet, but she still quickly scanned the room around them to ensure no one had heard his words. He looked at her. “What? Do you think I care who hears?”

“You should.” Maribelle frowned at him.

“You didn’t look half as irritated with him as you do with me now,” Chrom said, narrowing his eyes at her. 

“I was twice as irritated, but thrice as less likely to show it.” Maribelle tugged at her arm. “Chrom, will you please not hold me like I am a sword?” 

“What?” He paused, turning to look at her. 

She frowned at him. “You’re holding my arm like I am Falchion. Please, a little looser.” 

Chrom immediately dropped her arm. 

“I do not object to you taking my arm,” Maribelle clarified, looping her arm through his. “I do, however, object to being manhandled.”

“Yet you did not quite object to him.” His words were irate.

“Bite your tongue,” Maribelle said sharply. “I cannot risk angering someone who would be useful to you later on. The man was impudent, uncouth, and a barbarian at best. But there is no denying that I cannot ruin relationships that may prove advantageous to you. I would not forgive myself.”

Chrom slowed his steps. “That – makes sense.”

“Of course it does.” Maribelle sniffed. “Do you think I act without reason?”

“No. Of course not. Forgive me.” Chrom looked at the floor briefly but met her eyes. She nodded her assent, but, upon doing so, noticed the large mass of people that was gathering just off the dance floor, a guard in front of them, evidently speaking. She frowned.

“I cannot help but notice we are passing Frederick,” Maribelle said. “Where are we headed?”

“Frederick?” Chrom looked at the great knight, who was beginning to dutifully follow them. He frowned. “He doesn’t need to be following us right now.”

“You do not have your sword,” Maribelle said. “And a formal affair would be the perfect time for an assassin to strike – what with all of the visiting guests and finery, one would find it easy to slip away.”

“You sound just like him. Always worried,” Chrom said, half-smiling. “And, to answer your first question, we’re leaving.”

“Has it concluded?” Maribelle turned to look at her husband. “It is not midnight, is it?”

“We’re ending early,” Chrom said. “There’s been word of an impending storm, so we’re letting everyone go.”

“I see.” Maribelle nodded slowly. 

“Besides, I’ve had enough of this to last me three years.” He scowled. 

“One must get used to it,” Maribelle said, thinking of her reaction to the man’s words.

“I wish I wouldn’t have to.” He caught himself. “I sound like a child, don’t I? Forgive me.”

“There is no need to apologize,” Maribelle said as they exited the hall. She nodded quickly to a noblewoman who proffered her thanks to Chrom, as Chrom was completely ignoring it.

“If it is all right with you, I’d rather like to go to the rooms and sleep.” Chrom ran a hand down his face. “And get into something less… starched.”

“I would not mind that.” Maribelle thought of a cup of tea, warm, steaming, and scented. She smiled.

“Wait!” Lissa’s voice echoed down the castle hallway, and the couple ground to a halt instantly. 

The girl approached at a quick pace, panting slightly. “You sure left as fast as you could, Chrom. Do you know how many people I had to say goodbye to because you weren’t there? Urgh.”

“Oh, darling,” Maribelle fretted quickly, “I am so sorry! If I had known, I assure you, we would have not left with such haste.”

“I would have,” Chrom said under his breath. Maribelle shot him a glare. 

“Are you both going to sleep now?” Lissa crossed her arms, and then paused. Her ears reddened considerably. “Wait. Actually, I don’t want to know.”

Maribelle froze; the arm Chrom had around hers tensed considerably. She coughed, shook out her hair, and leveled a look at Lissa. “We will be returning to our rooms. I will see you tomorrow, darling.”

“Yep.” Lissa’s mouth wilted slightly. “Good night.”

Chrom didn’t say anything. When she glanced up at him as they began to walk again, Lissa having left them behind to take another corridor to her rooms, he was studiously examining the wall they walked beside.

The walk was silent until they approached the guards that consistently marked their rooms. Chrom waved Frederick away with one hand and nodded at the guards grimly.

“Good night, milord, milady,” Frederick said stiffly behind them as the door swung shut. 

“I’m going to bed,” Chrom said simply, unhooking his arm from hers. Maribelle watched him go into his closet silently, and waited until he had shut the door behind him before unhooking her gloves and stripping them from her arms. It was his custom to sleep early, she supposed. It had nothing to do with Lissa’s words. She glanced at herself in the mirror and tried to avoid looking at the shadows under her eyes, the frown lines she swore were imprinting themselves around her lips.

Shaking her head firmly, Maribelle slipped into her closet and changed into the nightgown she had laid out for herself beforehand, having anticipated that she would be exhausted from the ball. Now that she had left earlier than she had expected, the preparation seemed useless. The mirror opposite her displayed a white-gowned girl with hair done up far too high for such attire.

“Milady?” There was a knock on the door. “Forgive me, may I enter?”

“Celia.” Maribelle turned. “Please, help me with my hair.”

The door opened quickly and the girl slipped in, rubbing sleep from her eyes with one hand while shutting the door behind her with the other. Her dress was buttoned haphazardly. Maribelle tried to avoid frowning at her; the girl had obviously just awoken.

“Forgive me, milady,” the girl said, beginning to unfasten the pins that had held Maribelle’s hair up in an arrangement of curls. “I had expected you much later.”

“It is fine.” Maribelle winced as one pin proved particularly stubborn.

Several pins later, Celia gave her hair an agonizing wrench and the curls tumbled back into place, some rather mussed. Maribelle grimaced as her scalp voiced its silent complaint. The maid took a few more seconds to fix her curls and then paused, looking at Maribelle through the mirror.

“That will be all, Celia. Thank you.” Maribelle nodded at the girl smartly, who hid a yawn.

“Thank you, milady.” The girl exited swiftly, despite nearly tripping over a hatbox.

Maribelle took a deep breath, watching her torso grow and shrink in the mirror. Turning, she walked to the closet door and stepped out to the bedroom. Chrom was already sitting on his side of the bed, back to her, fiddling with the strap that normally fastened Falchion around his waist.

She turned, checking to make sure the door to the adjoining room that marked Celia’s quarters was shut. Satisfied, she walked up to the bed and sat on the edge of her side. “Is something amiss with your belt?”

“What?” Chrom half-turned to look at her, and then looked back at the leather in his hands. “Yes. The part around the latch is wearing away.”

“You can always give it to Celia or one of the guards. I am certain someone could find a way to fix it.” Maribelle stood and pulled the covers away from her pillow. 

“Yes. Probably.” Chrom stood as well, set down the belt on a nearby dresser, and then hovered over his side of the bed. The one remaining lit candle in the room flickered next to Chrom’s arm.

Maribelle eyed him. He flushed. “Are you still not – comfortable with me here?” she asked hesitantly, quietly, well aware that Celia may not have yet fallen asleep. 

“No.” Chrom’s ears spoke otherwise. He cleared his throat. “It’s not – I – I am getting used to it.”

“Well, you do normally sleep long before I do.” Maribelle nodded to herself, ignoring the catch in her throat. 

There was a silence as she slipped under the covers, careful to make sure the gown did not bunch up around her legs, and then laid her head on her pillow. After she was settled, she shut her eyes, and heard the rustling of covers as Chrom laid next to her. There was a hissing noise, and, through her eyelids, she knew the room grew dark. 

The bed was large enough, she knew, that there would be a space of around a foot and a half between them if she turned on her side. It was not, of course, as though she would attempt anything untoward during the night, she thought, but perhaps he was still fixed on her words from earlier – her talk about their duty. Maribelle flushed and turned away from Chrom. Gods. She placed a hand over her cheeks, even though she was aware he could not see her face. Somehow, the longer she waited, the less it felt like a duty to be ticked off. The more it felt like an obstacle.

“Maribelle?” Her eyes flew open.

“Yes?”

“I know this is sudden. I just – I heard from Lissa that you were – that, a long time ago, you… There was trouble between you and some court ladies when you were younger.”

Her mouth dropped open, eyes widening. Lissa! There was a long pause, and Maribelle, for once in her life, could think of nothing to say. The words of the women – girls, she amended, for they had been young, then – echoed in her ears. She flushed, her shoulders curling inwards as though to protect herself from the knowledge that Chrom knew of this – her most desperately kept secret.

“Are you still awake?” 

“Yes.” Maribelle sat upright, preparing to flee. “I’m going to get some water.”

“Wait.” A hand grabbed her elbow, and she turned around. Though the room was dark, she could see Chrom, propping himself up with his other arm. “Wait. That’s not – I don’t mean to insult you.”

“No.” Maribelle turned around quickly.

“Maribelle, hold on. I just – will you hear me out?”

She looked at the bookshelf across from them, tried to make out the titles in the dark. Anything not to focus on this. She took a breath, released it slowly. 

Chrom took her silence for assent, but did not release her arm. “I was being a fool and complained to Lissa about the ball. She told me that – that you were probably not looking forward to it either. Because of some things people had said to you earlier. She told me to shut up and thank you because you were a far stronger person than I.”

Maribelle looked to her side, not daring to turn her head.

“So. Here I am. Shutting up and thanking you.” Chrom cleared his throat, releasing her arm. “And… I guess I’m going to shut up, now.”

Maribelle opened her mouth and shut it again. She looked back at the bookshelf, but did not pay any attention to it. She opened her mouth again. “Do you not…”

There was a pause. “Not what?”

“No.” Maribelle laid back down quickly, slipped the covers up to her neck. “It’s nothing.”

“What is?” 

She could feel Chrom’s gaze on her neck and pulled the covers up an inch higher. “Good night.”

He gave a wordless huff. She heard him lie back down. “You really aren’t going to finish that sentence?”

“Good night,” she repeated, tightening her grip on the covers. He knew… and he was not upset. He knew. And he thanked her. She stared blindly at the bedside table at her side. He knew. But he had thanked her?

“Good night, then.” Chrom’s voice was slightly disgruntled. 

She wondered at herself silently, wondered at the shifting covers beside her as Chrom turned on his side. She watched the moonlight move, inch by inch, across the covers, until Chrom’s breathing slowed. She watched her bedside table, but did not think of it – she thought her agonies over the court ladies, now so petty and foolish, and Chrom’s words that looped in a circle around her head.

Maribelle moved, oh so slowly, so that she was on her back, trying to be as silent as possible. She turned her head. Chrom was facing her, his shoulder jutting out, his eyes closed, his hair falling messily. His shoulder and arm moved upwards when he breathed in, and fell down when he breathed out. His loose shirt had fallen slightly so she could see his collarbone, his Adam’s apple. His eyelashes, though it was dark, were, she knew, as blue as his hair. His mouth was closed, his face relaxed.

And Maribelle wondered at herself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I realized right before I began this chapter that they’ve actually been sleeping in the same room since Chapter 6. I had really meant to write their first night in the room together. And I forgot… This is what happens when you don’t plan the story out until you start writing. Hopefully the last part served as a sort of make-up for that?


	11. The Escape

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been gone for a very, very long time… Can you ever forgive me? (...Will the longest chapter I’ve written yet help? With an unofficial chapter title of "The Endless Conversation?")

The only indication Maribelle had that Chrom was about to burst through the front door was the quiet thumping that she thought was from one of the guards testing his lance against the floor. And then the door swung open with all the force of a gale and Chrom walked in.

“Good day, milord,” the guards chorused dutifully. Maribelle marked the page in her book, Law and Order in Valm: A Discourse, with the small ribbon she had set aside for the very purpose, and watched as her husband strode in purposefully towards the sofa she was perched upon, and then practically threw himself into the armchair closest to her. 

“Damn.” He stood, unbuckled Falchion, rested it against the chair, and then sat again. Maribelle blinked at him, and then observed the small rip in the upholstery where Falchion’s blade had torn the fabric. She made a mental note to inform Celia.

She waited for him to say something, but Chrom merely looked intently at the ceiling. Maribelle eyed his clothing – his usual outfit, all in blue; his boots, unmuddied; his sword, as far as she could tell, unused. He had not been sparring, but he looked somewhat out of breath. With a lack of anything better to do, Maribelle cracked her book open again, and then thought twice.

“Would you like some tea?” she offered. 

Chrom glanced at her. “Actually, yes. I would.” 

Maribelle stood, walked over to the cabinet, and withdrew a tea set. Balancing the tray with one hand, she carefully placed the pitcher of hot water she had asked Celia for earlier onto the tray and then, walking slowly, made her way back to the sofa.

Chrom was tapping one of his feet restlessly against the floor as she carefully measured out her own tea leaves.

“What kind would you like?” Maribelle asked, glancing at him. She did not fail to notice that his foot stopped when she looked at him.

“What kinds are there?” he asked.

“I have green from the south of Valm, white from the north of Valm, a rather earthy brown from Regna Ferox, an elderberry, and an herbal tea with orange in it that is Lissa’s favorite,” Maribelle rattled the list off with ease.

“I had no idea there were so many kinds,” Chrom said, eyeing the tins she had indicated with caution. “I’ll just take what you’re having.”

“White tea, then.” Maribelle had already stuck the spoon into the white tea before she thought twice about it. “Actually, if I may, I think you might prefer the elderberry.”

“That’s fine,” Chrom shrugged.

She poured the steaming water over the tea and waited for the required time to elapse. Chrom had resumed tapping his foot vigorously against the wood.

“How… is your studying going?” Chrom indicated the book to her side.

She looked at it, smiled, and lied fluently. “It goes well, I dare say. Although I find the foreign relations section far less interesting, I’m afraid.”

“Aren’t you preparing to be a magistrate?” Chrom asked. “I can imagine some need to look at foreign affairs, but not too much.”

“The exam has two parts,” Maribelle said, straightening as she removed the tea leaves and discarded them. “One part is over Ylissean affairs and all of the specifics of the law that you can imagine. The second, shorter part, is about foreign relations.”

“But you’re not studying to be a diplomat or anything,” Chrom said. 

“Yes, but a decent understanding of foreign relations can assist in making domestic decisions,” Maribelle responded, picking up his cup and offering it to him.

“Ah. Thanks.” He grasped it by the handle and blew on it. 

She picked up her own cup and eyed the pale liquid. Chrom appeared to have nothing else to say – he was slowly drinking his tea, eying the window opposite him. She had not slept well the previous night – her thoughts were not fully focused on her textbooks. She had chosen a book about Valm as it was the continent she felt she had learned the least about, and yet the material had been slipping from her mind as easily as the wind slips through ones fingers. 

Each time she read something about a court, her mind turned quickly to Chrom’s words the night previous. Each time she resolved to study more diligently, and each time she heard his words all the more insistently in her mind. Maribelle saw the flickering outline of her own expression on the tea’s surface and quickly took a sip, dispelling her wandering thoughts. 

“How was your morning, Chrom?” Maribelle asked. If he would not attempt small talk, she could.

“Fine. Uneventful.” Chrom responded, and then cleared his throat. “How has yours been?”

Maribelle nodded slowly. “It has been uneventful as well. I have been attempting to comprehend Valmese law since fairly soon after I awoke.”

“Right.” Chrom nodded. Maribelle almost saw the silence coming before it settled upon them. She looked at the tea set in front of her with pursed lips, noting the Mark of Naga sealed over each separate item in the set. Her thoughts, unbidden, flashed back to his sleeping form, and she quickly took another sip of tea to cover her cheeks.

“So.” Chrom shifted in his chair. “I was wondering.”

Maribelle set her cup on the saucer in front of her with a clink. He was studiously watching the window in front of him.

“Do you want to go riding?” 

“Riding?” Maribelle frowned. “I have no need to ride currently.”

“No.” Chrom looked away from her and then looked back at her, met her eyes for a split second. “I mean go riding with me.”

“Oh.” She thought of Rosalind, her horse, lovely and curried, and the feeling of galloping across the plains, and then realized whom she was speaking to. “I am sure you have more useful – more important – things to be doing today.”

She saw red creeping up his cheeks and felt her face flush as well, almost a sympathetic response to his discomfort. He cleared his throat, but did not quite meet her eyes. “I can think of no better idea right now than spending time with my wife.”

Maribelle kept her grasp on her cup and saucer, but immediately set them on the table in front of her to disguise the fact that she had nearly dropped them. She fixed on a question, any question. “But – why riding?”

“Well.” Chrom fidgeted in his chair, his ears reddening and contrasting vividly with the blue upholstery behind him. “It’s something you enjoy, isn’t it?”

“Are… are you courting me?” Maribelle couldn’t stop the words from tumbling out, the childhood stories of gallant knights riding around with their ladies riding side-saddle behind them echoing clearly in her head. Her mouth was curving into a smile without her realizing.

Chrom spluttered. “Well, why shouldn’t I? If - If you have something better to do, or studying to do, then I can always go riding by myself or – gods.” He covered his face with his hand. “This was not how I was going to do this.”

“No, I expect not.” Maribelle smiled nonetheless. Chrom dropped his hand a few inches and they met eyes over the edge of his gloves. “Regardless. Valm can wait for a few hours, and I have the strangest feeling that my horse is wasting away in her stall.”

Chrom stood and slung on his sword in one smooth motion. “Right. Let’s go then.”

Maribelle couldn’t help feeling her grin tug a centimeter or two wider. She smoothed her dress out as she stood up as well, and picked up the parasol that matched her silvery dress that she had set out against the couch for easy access. Chrom had already made his way over to the door, nervous energy apparent in his strangely straight back.

“The door, if you please,” she called out. He swung it open and she strode through, nodding at the guard’s chorus before turning down the hallway. She paused in the middle of one of her strides to wait for him to catch up.

“How are the treatises coming?” 

Chrom frowned. “Fine. I assume.”

“Assume?” Maribelle mimicked his expression. “You haven’t read them yet?”

“The diplomats are still pounding them out. They were supposed to be done a week ago.” Chrom paused and then shook his head. “But let’s not talk of politics. Please.”

“I understand. It can be sickening.”

“Well. Yes, but this – this is meant to be a break.” Chrom led the way down the long staircase to the lower levels of the castle. He glanced back at Maribelle and she watched his hair light up in the flash of sunlight let in by the arrow slit in the staircase’s wall. 

She smiled automatically at him and he grinned back, but she internally wheeled through her list of conversation topics. What did she have to discuss with him that was not politics? Training sessions? No, she had nothing to say about that. Battle formations? Of course not – she was no Robin. The ball last night? Maribelle could easily see that turning into the very discussion she wanted to avoid – continuing the conversation from last night. Lissa? Maybe. She could always discuss Lissa. But perhaps he would be bored of it; she had noticed that siblings tended to want to differentiate themselves instead of dwelling upon one another. 

What did people discuss with one another? She always had streams of words to spill out to Lissa. But what did they discuss? Tea would bore him, dress patterns perhaps more so, and court gossip would be political, probably, and therefore off limits. Maybe old friends – the Shepherds? 

“Have you heard anything of the Shepherds as of late?” Maribelle asked, carefully pulling up her skirts to avoid catching the fine lace at the bottom in the doorjamb as they walked into the bottom floor of the castle.

“What? Oh – yes.” Chrom nodded shortly at a group of guards that straightened and flashed them a salute as they walked through the courtyard in the center of the castle. Maribelle breathed in the sweet scent of honeysuckle. “Sully wrote to mention they were out of training lances so I had Frederick send some.”

“He is always dependable,” Maribelle commented. “I envy that – I wish Celia was half as reliable.”

“Right. He also gave us a letter that we received from Virion, but I haven’t read it yet.” Chrom frowned. “It was scented, so likely as not it’s some sort of invitation.”

Maribelle’s lip curled. “Hm.” 

“Milord!” Maribelle was halfway turned around to face the source of the voice before Chrom’s hand caught her shoulder and spun her forwards again.

“Speak of the devil. Keep walking,” Chrom said, low and quick in her ear, his arm pressing her flush to his side. “And look busy.”

“Busy?” Maribelle was able to get out before she was cut off once again by Frederick’s demanding yell.

“Milord!” 

Chrom didn’t so much as twitch. “Frederick, do I look like I have a minute right now?”

“Milord – it’s very important.” Maribelle halted for a second before being pushed insistently forward by Chrom’s arm around her shoulder blades. 

“I am sure it is,” Chrom said. “However, I currently have other pressing affairs to attend to.”

“I am sure we can take a second to hear you out, Frederick,” Maribelle said, mind on Virion’s letter. 

“Actually, no, we can’t.” Chrom frowned at her, his arm pushing her forwards steadfastly. 

Maribelle turned to look over Chrom’s shoulder at Frederick, but only managed to catch his face over Chrom’s plated shoulderguard.

“Lord Chrom,” Frederick attempted again.

“Maribelle needs to inspect her horse. She is injured, one of the keepers has just informed us.” Chrom’s lie was fluent, but he didn’t meet Frederick’s eyes, choosing to gaze at the gate to the stables, directly ahead of them. “Then we will come out to speak to you, Frederick.”

“Milord.” The word was almost reluctant. Maribelle recognized the tone of defeat from the times she had talked her father into doing something he didn’t agree with. Clearly, Frederick had experienced this brusqueness before.

“Thank you, Frederick.” Chrom neatly opened the stable gates, ushered Maribelle inside, and shut the gates with a clang before Frederick could follow.

“Did you have to do that?” Maribelle asked in an undertone, hurrying to keep up with Chrom’s stride, her heels sinking slightly into the dirt pathway. “What if it truly was important?”

“Half of the things Frederick finds important are the amount of lint specks on my carpets and the number of pebbles placed in the road ahead of me.” Chrom sighed. “Besides, if we would have stopped, I would never have gotten away from him.”

They approached the stables, slightly removed from the surrounding buildings in order to reduce any smell the nobility may have to endure. A stable boy straightened on their approach, pitchfork in hand, and then nearly toppled over due to the weight of the hay he was attempting to lift with said pitchfork. 

“Milord!” he said, voice strangled. “Milady!”

“Hello, Silas.” Maribelle smiled sweetly at him, recognizing him from previous days she had come to see Rosalind. “Our horses, if you please.”

“No – wait. Bring them round the other side,” Chrom ordered. “We’ll walk through the stables.”

“O-Of course. Milord.” The boy released his pitchfork, which creaked under the hay’s weight, and scurried into the stables, letting the doors close behind him. A second passed, and the doors hurriedly opened. He bowed awkwardly at them. “Milord, milady. If you, um. If you please.”

“Thank you.” They passed through the doors, and Maribelle immediately raised a scented handkerchief from her pocket to her nose in order to combat the stench that hit them like a Risen’s axe as they entered. 

After passing through the normal stables, which primarily housed the horses of the castle’s army, they reached a smaller section roped off for the prized horses that the castle’s resident nobles used. Maribelle prevented herself from immediately walking to her precious mare, and followed Chrom out the back gates. The stable boy rushed back inside after they had exited, evidently hurrying to begin preparations for the duty ahead of him. 

“I did not know you had a horse,” Maribelle commented. 

“Of course.” Chrom glanced at her, mouth quirking into a smile.

“What?” she asked, aware that her tone had become almost insolent, but bristling slightly at his grin in case he was laughing at her ignorance.

He waved a hand at her. “No, no, it’s not an insult. I just can’t understand you sometimes. You can walk through a battlefield full of dying Risen without a look of disgust, but you bring out the handkerchief for a stable?”

Maribelle lowered the piece of silk and frowned at him. “I have no time to worry about such things during a battle.”

“Of course not, but still. I gather you’re probably more used to the smell from here than from the Risen.”

“Sadly,” Maribelle frowned, “I’m probably about equally used to both.”

Chrom mimicked her expression. “Well. I apologize.”

“Whatever for?” Maribelle crossed her arms.

Whatever Chrom was about to respond was cut off by the swinging stable doors, which opened to admit Silas and two other stable boys leading their horses. 

“Milord!” one of them squawked. Chrom walked over to his horse and swung himself up. Maribelle, in turn, shooed the stable boys away and stroked her lovely mare on the neck before taking the reins and mounting her gracefully, careful to tuck her dress over her side-saddle.

“Shall we?” Chrom asked. She nodded, and then grinned mischeviously at him. He didn't have the chance to respond before she dug her heels into the horse’s side, beginning to gallop forwards across the wide expanse of fields before her before Chrom’s horse had even began walking. 

“Maribelle!” his voice trailed her, but the rush of the wind in her ears was louder still. The rhythmic jolting that her horse’s hooves created; the sunlight; the feeling of her hair, thick as it was, beginning to lift off her shoulders in the wind; the smooth rush of adrenaline that never failed to startle her face into a grin – all of these things were what had originally driven her to riding, and even now, side-saddle as she was, these things still made it worth it.

“Maribelle!” Chrom sounded slightly winded. She pulled at the reins and Rosalind began to trot dutifully. She turned as best as she could to see behind her, but did not have to wait for long, as Chrom’s horse bounded past her in a whirl of hooves and a jingle of metal. 

“Hold!” He must have yanked at the reins, for the horse whinnied loudly and ground to a halt, bucking up briefly before turning around to face her. 

Maribelle patted Rosalind’s neck, waiting with a small smile for Chrom’s poor horse to relax. “A bit out of practice, are we?”

Chrom was flushed, out of either exertion or embarrassment. “Well. There was a reason I never tried to be a cavalier.”

“Tradition as well, like as not.” Maribelle smiled and ushered Rosalind into a walk. “I have never heard of a Ylissean royal riding a horse.”

“Perhaps the flaw is in my blood, you’re saying?” Chrom pulled up beside her on the side her saddle was forcing her to face. “I admit that sounds a lot better than saying I just have no talent for it.”

“I doubt it,” Maribelle frowned. “I think it has more to do with the fact that you’re not encouraged to ride.”

“I was,” Chrom countered. “Have you ever had a great knight for a sparring partner – or a cavalier or a paladin, for that matter - who hasn’t tried to make you mount a horse to fight on their level instead of them dismounting?”

“I can’t say that I have.” Maribelle smiled. “People do not tend to ask a troubadour to spar.”

“Oh. Right.” Chrom looked at her. “Of course not.”

“I suppose I think of Lissa. I remember her complaining that her nurses worried she would break her back if she rode. Get trampled on. That sort of thing.”  
“Irrational fears, probably.” Chrom frowned at the trees ahead of them. 

“Like as not, they were just being cautious, yes.” Maribelle adjusted her sitting position slightly. The conversation paused, Chrom looking away out of politeness as she fidgeted in her seat. She cleared her throat and he turned back to her, not quite meeting her eyes for a second.

“Do you like to ride side saddle?” Chrom asked, eyes on the fluttering edges of her dress.  
“I do not prefer it.” Maribelle smiled wryly at the strange contraption, barely visible under her satin. “Unfortunately, one cannot wear dresses and ride normally.”

A quiet descended on them as they walked, the horses’ hooves muffled on the grass. Maribelle began her search for a conversation topic once again. She didn’t have anything more to say about the Shepherds, and talk of his horse had ceased. Maribelle looked at the strips of leather in her hands, worn where her gloves had rested through countless rides in the past, and grimaced. What would he speak of? There was so much she still did not know about him.

“Ten gold for your thoughts.” She looked up at him again. His lips were almost in a smile, but she could not quite smile back.

“It’s nothing of interest.” Maribelle fixed her gaze at her horse’s ears. 

“I am interested.” Chrom pulled his horse a foot closer to hers, so their legs were almost touching. 

“It sounds ridiculous.” She fiddled with the stitching on her reins again, and then flushed as she realized how foolish she must look, hunched over on her horse, avoiding Chrom’s gaze like a seven year old child who has broken her father’s most precious wine glass. She straightened and held her reins firmly once again.

Chrom blinked. “I’m sure you exaggerate. Besides, I’m sure I’ve heard worse.”

“I was trying to think of something to say.” Maribelle could feel herself pinkening. “No. Well. Not quite. I was realizing – realizing I did not quite know what I would speak about with you.”

When she finally gathered the courage to look straight at him once again, he was smiling. “You? Mistress of conversational arts?”

“What?” Maribelle huffed. “What did you call me?”

Chrom laughed outright. “Have you never heard that? That’s one of Virion’s little sayings.”

“That charlatan!” Maribelle’s tone made the word a curse. “He makes me seem like a witch.”

“No, I think he means it as a compliment.” Chrom grinned. “You always have something to say.”

“Believe me, I will have something to say to him the next time I see him.” Maribelle tightened her grip on the reins and Rosalind whinnied in protest. “How dare he call me names behind my back?”

“No, no, no,” Chrom tried again, “Really. It’s a compliment.”

Maribelle frowned. “I believe you to think it a compliment. But in his mouth the words would be an insult, I am sure.”

“Well, regardless,” Chrom surrendered the point but forged onwards, “I have never seen someone so absorbed by thinking of something to say.”

“I was not lying,” Maribelle said, flushing slightly. Chrom raised his brows. “I was – if you really must know, I was realizing how little I knew about you.” 

“How little?” Chrom repeated.

“Yes.” Maribelle cleared her throat. “I mean, I do know things about you. But not many.”

“What is there to know?” Chrom seemed bemused by the concept. 

“I don’t know.” Maribelle could feel herself getting redder. “How you pass the time when you’re not in meetings.”

“What I do to pass time?” Chrom looked at the horse in front of him as though it would provide an answer. “It’s not interesting. I sleep; I train. I don’t know.”

“I’ve never seen you rest in your free time,” Maribelle said slowly.

“Well.” Chrom coughed. “Occasionally I will nap.”

Maribelle blinked. “I’ve never seen you do so in the rooms.”

“Not in the rooms,” Chrom admitted. “In the office.”

“On your papers?” Maribelle was struck by the image of Chrom, the exalt of all of Ylisse, falling asleep while using a stack of official bills as a pillow.

Chrom huffed. “I’m not answering that.”

She put her hand to her mouth to bite back a laugh but couldn’t stop the giggle from escaping. “What would your royal council say?”

“Gods. Don’t ask.” Chrom looked in the other direction. “Like as not, they’d skewer me publically as a slothful leader and take it as an opportunity to run more of the government themselves.”

“No one would ever call you such a thing.” Maribelle crossed her arms, no easy feat while riding. “All can see that you have dedicated your very life to this country.”

Chrom turned to meet her gaze, and she felt a small thrum of – excitement? joy? the same feeling she got when she had first tried a tea that she knew she would keep it in her pantry the rest of her life, the same feeling as riding on Rosalind and clearing a six-foot-jump – when he did so. 

He smiled; she suddenly understood why one could describe a smile as warm. “Thank you.”

“It is nothing but the truth.” She looked at her dress and back up, not sure if she could meet that smile for much longer. “Besides. We have been riding into the forest for some time now. Shall we turn back around?”

“No – this way.” Chrom urged his horse to the right and waved that she should follow. “There’s a clearing up here.”

“Up the hill?” Maribelle surveyed the expanse of trees ahead of them. The trees were not dense; there was enough room for horses to pass through two abreast, still, but the woods seemed to get thicker farther away from the castle.

“Come on.” Chrom made a half turn in his saddle, stopping his horse to wait for her. “It’s not far.”

She pressed Rosalind into a walk once again and soon caught up. “I don’t think I have ever been up here.”

“Not many have, I don’t think.” Chrom glanced around them, his dark hair dappled lighter blue in the sunlight that had passed through the leaves above them. “Anyways. What do you mean, you don’t know anything about me?”

“I do know something about you,” Maribelle protested.

“Well, what do you want to know, then?” 

“I don’t know.” Maribelle flushed. Her old romance novels were dredged from her memory once again. “Is this not what people do when they court one another? Learn about one another?”

“Oh.” Chrom paused, and then reddened slightly. “Well, what is it you wish to learn?”

Once asked, Maribelle’s mind slowly emptied of any previous curious thoughts. What did she want to know? She looked at him, carefully avoiding his eyes, and saw Falchion. “Why do you enjoy training so much?”

“A leader must be strong,” Chrom said automatically. “Able to protect his country.”

“But that’s why you train,” Maribelle corrected him. “Not why you enjoy it.”

“I want to be someone who can protect Ylisse.” Chrom looked at her. “Is that not enough?”

“No, listen. Ask me what I enjoy about riding.” Maribelle waited expectantly.

“What do you enjoy about riding, Maribelle?” Chrom said dutifully.

“I enjoy riding because it is a freeing experience that allows me to bond with a wonderful horse such as Rosalind.” Maribelle pronounced this with expert flair. “I ride because it allows me to travel places efficiently and dodge enemy blows with greater ease than if I was dismounted.”

“But that doesn’t sound like truth,” Chrom protested. “You said that as if you had rehearsed it.”

“It is the truth.” Maribelle nodded smartly. “Besides, you sounded rather rehearsed yourself. But did you hear the difference?”

“It was the truth!” Chrom frowned at her. “And where exactly was that difference?”

“Why you enjoy something is why you enjoy it. Why you do something is what purpose it brings you toward,” Maribelle rattled off, hearing her childhood tutor’s voice. “And while I do not doubt that your words were true, I also do not doubt that any ruler would say the same.”

Chrom scoffed. “What, and I am expected to believe that you find riding a ‘freeing experience’ and you do it to ‘travel efficiently’? No one thinks in those terms.”

“Well, perhaps not quickly. But given time to think about it, anyone can figure out why they enjoy or do not enjoy something.” Maribelle pulled the reins slightly to avoid a rock Rosalind was headed towards.

“I think you believe everyone to be just as thoughtful as you are,” Chrom said. “I train because I enjoy it. That’s all there is to it.”

“But why do you enjoy it?” Maribelle countered, fully aware that she was perhaps on the verge of pestering him.

“I don’t know. I enjoy it because I… I am good at it, I suppose.” Chrom frowned deeply. “That makes it sound rather shallow.”

“Plenty of people enjoy things because they’re good at it.” Maribelle shrugged. “I’m sure I started riding originally because I had a talent for it.”

“And why did you start using staves?” Chrom asked. She blinked at him and he looked to her hip, where in battle the small ring that could hold her staff would have resided. “Nobility – especially noblewomen – don’t tend to join the army.” 

“Well…” Maribelle thought of Lissa. “I believe I originally began against my parent’s orders, if you would believe that.”

“What? You, betraying your parents’ orders?” Even his voice was slightly lilting, almost laughing.

Maribelle scoffed. “Excuse me. You appear to peg me for a parents’ little pet or something of the sort.”

He did laugh this time. “Well, I guess between all your talk of propriety I assumed you had acquired it from them.”

“No, you are right.” Maribelle acceded, “that did come from them in some way. But I will have you know I was rather a –”

“Rather a?” Chrom prompted when it became clear she was not immediately going to finish her sentence. 

Maribelle bit her tongue, suddenly irritated with herself. “Well, perhaps my father and I did not see eye to eye all of the time.”

“Ah. Did he not wish you to get caught in the war?” Chrom met her eyes and she looked away again, touched Rosalind’s mane. 

“Not particularly.” Maribelle frowned. “I suppose at the beginning I had little inclination to fight as well.”

“Ah.” Chrom nodded brusquely. “It makes sense.” 

Maribelle was silent for a moment, slightly ruffled by his easy acceptance. “I hope you do not think me selfish.”

“No, not at all, really.” Chrom paused. “A lot of the Shepherds… I guess they had little choice in what they got to do with their lives. Some of them chose to do what they do now. Some of them didn’t. You had probably the best option out of any of us – you could have been a court lady and lived your life as though a war hadn’t been happening at all.”

“As though –” Maribelle huffed. “Do you truly believe I would be so callous and willing to forget the rest of the world for my own sake?”

“Well, of course not,” Chrom began, flushing slightly. “I just mean to say –”

“There was no chance I would ever let that occur,” she said irately. “At the least I would have been organizing things in Themis. But as things were, I could not just stand by idly.”

“As things were?” Chrom repeated. 

Maribelle frowned. “Well, to start at the beginning... I originally wanted to begin learning because – well, because Lissa began learning. I wanted to be able to practice with her. Father only allowed me after I bothered him about it, and finally said it was because the princess himself was learning.”

Chrom hummed noncommittally but Maribelle saw the flicker of distaste cross his face.

“Do not think poorly of him,” she said before she could stop herself. “He was just… being careful about me.”

“No, no,” Chrom backtracked. “I suppose it is rather strange for a noblewoman to learn any magic at all.”

“It is.” Maribelle nodded slowly, thinking about her mother’s lectures via letter to her (“I know you are at court and things are done differently there, but I still expect you to comport yourself exactly as you would at Themis”) and Lissa’s pouting at age ten (“It’s so boring! And no one else does it except you and me, Mari”). She cleared her throat. “Well. Anyways. After I began learning, I discovered I was rather good at it, and besides, there were people at court who started respecting me after they learned I could set a bone or heal a concussion.”

“I see.” Chrom shook his head, grinning. “So you did begin because of Lissa.”

“Is that a problem?” Maribelle frowned at him. “It’s a perfectly good reason.”

“Right,” he said, “and what’s interesting is that if you ask Lissa why she’s a healer, she says the same thing.”

“Whatever do you mean?” Maribelle inquired sharply. 

He grinned. “She says she kept being a healer because she enjoyed practicing with you.”

“Oh.” Maribelle couldn’t hide the sudden grin, the bolt of happiness through her stomach that made her sit straighter. “I had no idea.”

“Well,” Chrom said, “I suppose you also must factor in the mandatory training Emm made her go through.”

Maribelle nodded, but kept smiling. “Of course. One must.”

“She hated that training at first,” Chrom said. “Gods. I remember her trying to hide in my closet to avoid Frederick.”

“What?” Maribelle snorted. “You must have been imagining things.”

“You think I could’ve imagined that?” Chrom looked at her incredulously. “I’m about nine, and I’m woken up in the morning by a wailing sister running into my closet to try to hide in my practice armor. I’m too tired to get up but the next thing I know Frederick is standing over me like some – some huge bear, shaking me and asking if I’ve seen Lissa.” 

Maribelle laughed, forgetting to cover her mouth with her hand. “Oh my. And I suppose she was caught?”

“Are you joking?” Chrom snorted. “No one can hide from Frederick. Besides, she must have been – what –”

“Five,” Maribelle supplied helpfully.

“Five, right,” Chrom nodded, eyes somewhere above them. “Right. That would make sense.”

“I knew she disliked it, but I’d never heard about that,” she said. 

“Oh, look,” Chrom caught her arm and she jolted upright, glanced at him and then followed his gaze before them. “There it is.”

“Oh my.” Maribelle paused and Rosalind paused along with her. 

“There it is.” Chrom smiled, self-satisfied. 

Maribelle walked Rosalind up so they were fully into the little clearing, mouth slightly open at the view in front of them. They had reached a small cliff set into the edge of the hill they had been travelling around the back of, and now Chrom’s intentions were made clear. 

Ylisse sprawled out before them. Green pastures blanketed the land directly in front of them, the selfsame ones she had just galloped across when she had pulled far ahead of Chrom. The conical thrust of the castle in the foreground barely covered the various assorted city streets that retreated into the distance, and then, further away, the suburbs. The buildings were each nearly indistinguishable in a mess of shadows and walls and windows and miniscule laundry fluttering between the streets. 

“What do you think?” Chrom asked at her side. She started and turned to look at him. “Rather impressive, isn’t it?”

“Impressive is perhaps an understatement,” Maribelle said, running her gaze across the mass of trees, the mountains in the far distance retreating into the blue and purple clouds in the sky, miles away from them. 

“Heh.” She turned to look at him again and found him smiling at her. “You like it, don’t you?”

“Of course,” she said, flushing slightly and resolutely turning her gaze back to the hills ahead of her.

“Good. That was my intention, you know.” 

Maribelle cleared her throat lightly, ignoring the small rush of heat to her cheeks, her ears. “I thank you. It is very beautiful.”

“I like to think this is the best view of Ylisse,” he said. “Besides perhaps the one from the balcony, and that one is a little too close to the city itself to get the whole view of it.”

Maribelle nodded, suddenly vividly reminded of all the people who had stared up at her through her veil at their official presentation. The city was not just a landscape in a painting, or replicated in a simple sketch in one of her books. It was a living entity, full of people who looked up to the man standing beside her – and now, perhaps, she thought, hands tightening on the reins, to her as well.

“You look pretty serious,” Chrom commented.

She blinked and pushed a curl behind her ears, ignoring the fact that it immediately fell back into its place by her cheek. “Well… May I ask you a question?”

“Of course.” He waited expectantly. 

Maribelle paused, taking her time to formulate exactly what she wanted to say. “I… Are you ever, perhaps, burdened by all of this?”

“All of what?” Chrom stared at the city. “It’s a nice view.”

“No,” she said impatiently. “I mean, being exalt. Knowing there are all those people out there, looking up to you.”

“Ah.” His expression became more serious as well. “I see what you mean.” 

Maribelle nodded slowly, watching him turn back to the city, eyes dark. 

“I suppose I didn’t have much chance to think about being exalt until I had already become it.” He paused. “I – well, I had never thought that I would ever be exalt at all.”

She tried to hide her wince by turning her head to the side. “Of course.”

“I wasn’t quite cut out for all of this.” He gestured at the trees to his side as though they would explain what he meant. “All of the… politicking and ballrooms and signing treatises.”

“You do it better than you think,” Maribelle attempted.

Chrom waved her away. “No, no need to try to convince me. I am very aware of how bad I am at this.”

“No,” Maribelle said, more forcefully this time. “I do mean it.” 

He laughed, but without enjoyment. “I don’t quite need encouragement.”

“Chrom!” She said, louder still, and he started. “I do mean it. I am very aware that you dislike what you do in parts. But you are doing better than you think. Perhaps there are a few things that need polishing, but –”

“Polishing,” he snorted. “As though I’m silverware.”

“I mean to say,” she pushed on, ignoring his aside, “that all it requires is only a little more effort on your part. Not much.”

“What do you suggest I give more effort to?” His mouth twisted slightly into a grimace. “The speeches? The maneuvering around court? The business deals they try to propose in the back rooms of supposedly casual dinners?”

Maribelle huffed. “Who on earth is trying to make deals with you in a back room? That is underhanded and entirely inappropriate.”

“And apparently a custom here in court.” Chrom did smile bitterly this time. “Gods. I hate it all.”

“Do you really hate it?” she asked, slightly thrown off. 

He met her worried look with a drawn expression of his own. “Hate, perhaps, is a strong word. But I will say I far preferred getting rid of Risen.”

Maribelle snorted. “Well, perhaps the answer is to get rid of the advisors like the Risen.”

Chrom’s brow contracted and he leaned back slightly, wary, as though uncertain if she was serious.

“Chrom,” she said indignantly, noticing his expression, “I jest.”

“Somehow, I wouldn’t have put it past you,” he said, almost smiling again. “I can just imagine.”

“Imagine what?” she asked, frowning and flushing at the same time. “You can’t truly believe I would recommend you off your advisors.”

He let out a slow breath. “My life would be easier without them.”

“You must have advisors,” Maribelle said, suddenly jumping into lecture. “Without advisors, people could say you were approaching a state of dictator.”

“I know, I know, I know,” Chrom waved her words away wearily. “Believe me, I’ve gotten enough lectures about this already.” He turned to dismount and Maribelle quickly unhooked herself from her saddle as well, scrambling down just a few seconds after he also hit the grass below them.

“Besides.” Maribelle released the reins, fully confident that Rosalind would not wander far. “As odious as they are, they do pose a certain help at times.”

“Fair as that may be,” Chrom said, adjusting his saddle, “I thought we were not going to speak of politics.” 

Maribelle did bite her tongue this time. “Forgive me. I did not mean to start speaking about it.”

Chrom led his horse to one of the nearby trees and looped his reins around a branch. “No, it’s fine.”

“It is not,” she countered. “I had promised to avoid the subject and then brought us neatly back to it.”

He huffed out a noise close to a laugh. “Perhaps it’s unavoidable.” 

Maribelle flushed at the implication. “I can speak of things other than politics, thank you.”

“Oh no, I’m aware,” he said quickly, shaking his head. “You just – have an aptitude for it, I suppose.”

“For speaking of it?” she frowned, still uncomfortable.

“No, for the politics themselves.” He sighed when she frowned at him and opened her mouth to disagree. “No, don’t try to be kind. It’s fully true. You would probably make a far better exalt than I.”

“Not at all,” Maribelle said, crossing her arms. “The court is not quite enamored with me, as you may have noticed.”

He snorted. “And you think they are enamored with me?”

She rolled her eyes. “Have you spoken to any of the court ladies since you were fifteen? At least half of the court has admired you for at least as long.”

He blinked. “What?”

Maribelle raised her eyebrows, disbelieving. “Are you sure you don’t know what I mean?”

“What?” he repeated, bemused.

“Are you truly so dense?” Maribelle couldn’t help herself from using the word.

“What?” he asked again, this time with a tinge of irritation. “Dense?”

“Dear gods.” Maribelle surveyed her husband with a mixture of irritation and – though this was surely to do with how much he was acting like Lissa did when she pointed out her multitude of admirers – affection. “Are you sure you don’t know what I’m talking about?”

“What are you talking about?” He folded his arms, eyes narrowing.

“Chrom, you have officially broken the hearts of half your court by marrying me.” Maribelle snorted. “And the poor dears didn’t even have your sympathy.” 

“Of half the –” he spluttered, ears reddening. “That’s absurd. You sound like Lissa.” 

“Of course I sound like Lissa!” Maribelle rolled her eyes. “Anyone with eyes could tell, and dearest Lissa is rather observant. I have no doubt she was well aware.”

“That’s just – you’re making it up.” Chrom attempted.

“Whether you believe me or not,” Maribelle allowed, letting it go, “I will say the position of exalt is in much better hands than if I was leading.”

He shook his head, clearly still disbelieving. “Either way, Maribelle, I guess I’m grateful you believe in me.”

“Everyone does,” she responded staunchly. “Isn’t it obvious?”

He grimaced. “That’s quite a lot of people who are relying on me. It’s not particularly easy.” 

The grim set to his jaw, the way he flexed his hands as though he was waiting for his sword to leap into them. Maribelle watched him, suddenly reminded that she stood in front of the same man who had saved her life all that time ago in Plegia. He sighed. “Then again, it’s what I must do.” 

“If you ever –” Maribelle cut herself off. 

“What?” He met her eyes and she balked slightly at their piercing blue. 

“Well.” Maribelle swallowed but continued, not quite able to look at him. “If you ever do wish to speak about it – if you are ever particularly burdened – I am also here. Not to say, perhaps, that the burden is too hard for you to carry, or that you would necessarily turn to me. I - what I mean to say is, you are not alone.”

A pause, broken by the rustle of the wildlife in the trees behind them. Maribelle urged herself to look up, but found herself somewhat paralyzed; she recognized the emotion but was afraid to admit it. Fear, embarrassment. The all-too-encompassing realization that she had made herself too vulnerable.

When she finally managed to pull her eyes from the grass at her feet, Chrom was smiling at her, a smile she was loath to call anything other than gentle. “Thank you, Maribelle.”

“Pish. It is nothing.” Maribelle shook her head slightly, pulling her shoulders upwards, pulling herself together.

“It means a lot. Especially since it comes from one of the most accomplished women I know.” 

It was Maribelle’s turn to splutter, his gaze at her almost too direct to look towards. “Nonsense! That’s hardly – I doubt many would describe me as such. I have much more to learn and perfect.”

He laughed. “I don’t know if you know what many would say about you, then.”

“That’s hardly true.” Maribelle smoothed out her dress as though it would clear her mind, pull her from the strange feeling of having someone look just at her, the strange weight of it hot, burning.

“It’s interesting.” There was the lightest of smiles on his lips as he looked at her, an almost evaluating tilt to his head. “You seem to understand most everyone fairly well except for yourself.”

“Excuse me?” Maribelle said, not quite angry, but surely her flush was from her irritation and not the way he stepped closer to her.

“I don’t think you quite understand how people see you.” And gods, Maribelle nearly stepped backwards as he came forwards another half-step, and her bodice seemed suddenly tight. And there was no one else around, and this made her take a breath, for what would her mother say, what on earth was she doing in the middle of the woods with a man? (And then she realized they were married, and her mother had given her that blasted book, and Chrom was still looking at her, and now she was red, she was certain of it.)

“I – I’m not sure what you mean.” Maribelle could hear herself say the words, light, breathy. 

“Maribelle, I’m being serious.” And he grinned at her, and she hadn’t realized someone smiling at you was so easy to look at. She couldn’t turn away.

“Chrom,” she began, entirely uncertain where she was headed. “I am rather aware that I have been trained well to – represent myself well.” 

He raised an eyebrow and Maribelle flushed darker, realizing she had been blathering. Years of etiquette training that had been suddenly abandoned rushed back. “What I mean to say is, thank you for your compliment. It is – while I do not believe it’s entirely correct, I am appreciative.”

“Oh, she’s back.” Chrom grinned again.

“What?” Maribelle frowned at him. 

“For a second, I thought I’d found another Maribelle.” He laughed. “One who wasn’t quite mistress of conversational arts.”

“Please!” Maribelle huffed, folding her arms. “It was a mere – I was merely thinking. And please, do not call me that.”

“It was…” Chrom paused. Maribelle flushed, filling in the words – embarrassing to watch, disgraceful, unladylike, unfitting for one of her station. “Kind of nice, actually.”

“Nice?” She asked incredulously, her ears hot beneath her curls.

He chuckled. “Well, I guess that it made you seem. I don’t know. More human.”

“Human?” Maribelle protested, reddening again. “If I had my parasol I would hit you.”

“Oh, please,” Chrom raised his hands in mock fear, backing several paces away. “I have no defense against your parasol.”

Maribelle snorted, and bit back a small smile. 

“Maybe human was the wrong word,” he offered, still smiling at her. “You’re just always so composed that it was kind of nice to see you stutter a little.”

“Do my flaws really make you happy?” Maribelle raised an eyebrow. 

“No, no, no. Maybe it just… made me feel better about myself.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “I mean, I guess I just know that I don’t always know what to say. But you’re always… you always know what to say.”

“That’s hardly true,” she said, nonetheless unable to stop a small smile from unfurling on her face from his compliment. 

“It is. You don't get called mistress of conversational arts for no reason.”

“Enough with that name.” She shook her head decisively.

“All right, all right.” He smiled nonetheless. “Still. It was kind of nice to see a stuttering Maribelle.”

“I did not stutter!” she protested hotly.

Chrom laughed, and Maribelle paused to watch it, watch his head tip backwards slightly and his smile break across his face. “All right, all right, you win. I give up.”

She grinned smugly despite herself. “A surrendering exalt? How shameful.”

He snorted. “Truly, I think you could make even Basilio and Flavia wave a white flag.”

She laughed at the image. “Perhaps I shall have to try sometime.”

“Well, I suppose you may be seeing a lot of them if they come over for the peace treatise talks.” Chrom smiled. “If you do, let me know. I want to see it for myself.”

“If I ever have the chance, I will let you know.” She grinned again, imagining herself debating hotly with Flavia. 

“I look forward to it.” 

She smiled back at him, suddenly content. A future towards somewhere distant, sprawled out in her mind – a future where he could look forward to things in her life because he would be there for them. 

A stick cracked behind Chrom and all of the sudden there was what sounded like a human scream from behind him. Maribelle drew in a sharp breath at the sound – piercing, deafening – and the unmistakable smell of blood and – oh, gods. She covered her face with her hands.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OK I KNOW I also hate cliffhangers please don't despise me. 
> 
> The only reason there is one is because this chapter was getting WAY TOO LONG and there was no real way it was going to end any time soon. The next one is half-written, and it will not be another seven months before you see it... I promise. (Do my words mean anything to you anymore? Please forgive me T_T)


	12. The Injury

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All my love to the FE Wiki and to the people who post cutscenes on Youtube when I'm too lazy to pick up the game to fact-check.

****

Chrom turned instantly and unsheathed Falchion in one smooth action, and then gasped in horror at his horse, that had been cleaven to its knees by – unmistakably – a Risen. Maribelle drew in a breath, faced by eyes that, even in the bright sunlight, glowed dimly red, by an axe, by a stench of loam and rot and fear. And where was her horse? She was never on foot in a battle.

“By the gods,” Chrom swore. Maribelle took another step backwards, feeling with one arm out behind her for Rosalind. Her staff. It was always there, looped somewhere on her saddle.

Chrom glanced back at her, and his eyes widened. “No. Get over here!” Maribelle twisted around, fully expecting to see another Risen behind her, but only saw her horse, who was beginning to sweat, but did not seem yet on the edge of bolting. 

“I mean it!” Chrom’s voice rang out, commanding. She scrambled, recognizing the voice he used for battle, and hurried to his side. 

“Stay behind me,” he said lowly, eyes still trained on the Risen ahead of them, who was maneuvering slowly around the horse. “I don’t know how many there are, and they tend to travel in packs.” 

“Your horse,” she said softly. 

Even with his back to her, she could still tell that he was grimacing. “Yes. We’ll have to fight them off.”

The creature – Maribelle was loath to consider it a human – raised its axe and screeched wordlessly at them, running towards them and swinging its weapon down upon Chrom’s head. He ducked, slashed upwards, and Maribelle skittered backwards to avoid any closeness to the axe. They were rewarded by a thick fume of dense, hot purple smoke that the creature exhaled and then disappeared into. Chrom waved Falchion about, attempting to dissipate the smoke to better see the area around them.

“Over there!” Maribelle said, pointing to a stumbling figure in the trees beyond them. It appeared to react to her voice and began to run at them. Chrom yelled wordlessly and ran to meet it, swinging up Falchion to meet its blade with a horrible crash. Maribelle again began to stumble backwards into Rosalind, who was now beginning to skitter back and forth. Her staff. Gods, where was her staff when she needed it? What if Chrom got injured?

She placed a hand on the saddle to try to calm her horse and feel for her rod, and found only an empty ring where her staff would be. Maribelle stared at it, overcome by a mixture of frustration and horror. Of course she didn’t have her staff. This wasn’t a battle on the road to Plegia; this was a random encounter in the middle of the woods. She wasn’t even wearing anything that wouldn’t wrinkle or stain, let alone carrying her staff. 

An acrid smell suddenly hit her, accompanied by a strange warmth behind her. She stiffened, turned, and was greeted by red eyes and a gush of purple stench out of an emaciated mouth. Each tooth, rotting in the decrepit jaw, was clear to her, it raised its arms in a clear attempt to swing its sword down upon her head. Maribelle screamed.

“Maribelle!” The voice was lost to her in her alarm and she ran out from the Risen instinctively, scrambling backwards and tripping over herself. The creature’s head turned to look at her and she bit back another cry. 

“Maribelle!” She glanced in his direction for only a second – he was trapped between two of the creatures, both of them axe-wielders and easily thrice her size. 

The creature in front of her roared – there was no better word for it – and ran towards her. She couldn’t help the shriek that rose from somewhere primal in her and she rolled to the side, narrowly avoiding getting a sword to her chest and instead getting a slash down her arm. Blood burst from her and she shrieked again, but immediately clutched the arm to her chest and tried to stand upright but did not quite make it.

“Maribelle!” He seemed closer – she turned instinctively. 

Chrom burst out from a billowing wave of smoke and practically jumped upon the Risen she had been staring at only seconds before; he pinned it to the ground and stabbed Falchion neatly through its heart, waiting only for the tell-tale beginning of disintegration before he stood and ran towards her. “Are you hurt?”

Maribelled did not have to say anything - he sucked in a breath, eyes wide at the sight of the red stain growing on her silver dress. He held out a hand and she took it with her one good arm; he heaved her to her feet with seemingly little effort. “Gods. Your arm.”

“We need to go,” she said, “now.” 

His expression drew grim. “We have no easy way out. My horse is down.”

“I don’t have my staff,” she tried to explain. “I can’t heal you if you get hurt.”

“What are you saying?” he burst out. “I'm not the one in need of a cleric!” 

“I can’t let you get hurt,” she said. “And they’re not stopping.”

“I can fight my way out of this,” he said loudly, grip white on Falchion at his side. “You need to leave – now. Get on your horse and go get your wound tended to.”

“Behind you!” Maribelle cried, and Chrom turned, flicking his sword upright and into the Risen’s exposed flesh. It spat smoke, but managed to nearly swing its sword into Chrom’s thigh – only his quick movement saved him. 

“There are too many for me to fight off with you here,” Chrom said, and Maribelle heard his unspoken words – with you here, as a hindrance. He grunted as he swung Falchion again, this time into the creature’s neck. “Go, get your wound tended to, and send someone for me.”

“No!” she protested instantly. “You think I am leaving you here?”

He half-turned to look at her as he pushed the creature, now beginning to fall apart, from his sword and onto the ground. “Maribelle! Leave! Now!”

“No!” She would have stamped her foot in any other situation. “We need to leave!”

“And I’m telling you, go!” Chrom yelled, half-turning to look at her as he raised Falchion into a defensive position. “Maribelle, for your own sake! Get out of here!”

“I’m not leaving you!” she yelled back just as loudly. Rosalind. She looked to her horse, who was rearing up, eyes rolling. “Rosalind can take both of us!”

“She won’t be fast enough with two people!” Chrom glared at her outright now. “What are you waiting for?”

“It’s my job to protect you,” she cried back instantly. “For the sake of your people get on my horse! If either of us live it should be you!”

“What in Naga’s name are you saying?” he roared in response. “Get! On! Your! Horse!”

Whatever Maribelle was going to say was cut off by the whip of an arrow that flew between the two of them and over the cliff face behind them. Chrom looked back at her as though to say wordlessly – do you see what happens when you stay? Maribelle ignored him and looked at what was becoming a sizeable horde of Risen around them. She inched towards her horse, eyes fixed on the closest creature to her, whose body was making strange cracking noises and whose head was surely turning in ways that human necks did not.

“Chrom, if you don’t get on Rosalind, I won’t either,” she said loudly, gripping her horse’s reins tightly with her good hand. She winced, feeling the pain of her wound lance up her left arm once more. “And – Chrom – I don’t think I can mount like this.”

“What?” He turned and then flicked his attention back to the Risen when another arrow narrowly missed him. “Your arm. Damn it all.” 

“Chrom, we have to go before we’re thoroughly surrounded!” Maribelle could hear her pitch rising. “I have no way to heal you, I don’t have my staff!”

“Damn your staff!” Chrom exclaimed. “Do I look like I care about being healed right now? Where are your priorities? Get on your horse!”

“I keep telling you, I’m not leaving without you!”

He gritted his teeth, held his defensive stance a second longer, and then sprinted over, sheathing Falchion as he ran. “Hold on.” He attempted to mount and then swore. “What is this?”

“Sidesaddle,” Maribelle remembered a second too late, “Just ignore it and sit normally!” 

A roar from behind them. Maribelle almost turned and saw a creature begin to charge towards them, maneuvering through the trees. “Chrom!” 

“I can’t!” he said furiously, but attempting to settle himself on the very back of it. “Give me your hand, now!”

She raised her arm and another arrow rocketed by them, inches beside Rosalind’s ears. “Chrom!” 

“I know!” He yanked her up and she scrambled, belly onto the uncomfortable sidesaddle straps, and then attempted to pull herself into some sort of seated position. 

“Go!” Chrom yelled from above her, and she realized that he must have dug in his heels because Rosalind began to move, and she could feel herself slipping, bodice catching on the straps of the saddle. Chrom grunted and pulled her somewhat upright as the horse began moving, and she found herself almost straddling Rosalind’s neck. “You’re going to have to hold on!”

“I’m trying!” she gritted out, moving her skirts as best she could in order to sit upright, feeling each bump as she did so. Another wordless screech came from behind them and Rosalind made a high-pitched whinny in response. Even through her frustration and fear, Maribelle could tell her horse was terrified. 

She grasped the saddle behind her with one hand and began reaching for the reins that were fluttering at the side of Rosalind’s mane, just out of reach. If she could just get her hands on them, perhaps she could control Rosalind. Keep her calm. For – dear Naga – if Rosalind reared up, they would both be thrown from the saddle, or, rather, from around the saddle. 

“Let me!” Chrom leaned down and pushed her practically flat onto Rosalind’s neck in order to grasp them. His breath caught the back of her neck for a second before he straightened and Maribelle attempted to sit up and not slide off her horse altogether.

“Hold on!” He snapped the reins and her horse started to canter. Maribelle began to scrabble at Rosalind’s mane. Her dress was not made for riding, and the silk combined with Rosalind’s already sweaty flanks was proving disastrous.

“A little help!” she gasped.

“Here!” An arm clasped around her ribs and she was forcibly pulled backwards even as Rosalind began to gallop, her thigh hitting one of the ridges of the sidesaddle painfully. She heard another tell tale flick of an arrow pass by them, this one further away. 

Trees flew by as Rosalind sped away from the danger, and Chrom grunted each time Rosalind hit the ground particularly hard. Maribelle gritted her teeth, careful to keep her tongue away from them, and closed her eyes instead, holding onto Chrom’s arm as the only thing currently keeping her upright. The sidesaddle was digging into her leg in a way she could tell would leave a bruise, and her arm was losing blood at a pace more rapid than she had expected, judging from the heat that was spilling onto her other arm and across her stomach. 

A roar came from behind them and Chrom swore again, urging Rosalind on faster with a dig of his heels. 

“Maribelle, can you sit up?” Chrom’s voice in her ear, urgent.

Maribelle attempted to straighten but she had no way to sit properly with the uneven tilt of the saddle beneath her. “I don’t think so – not well.”

“Damn.” She cracked open her eyes briefly and saw trees spinning towards them and winced. “I can’t use Falchion like this.”

“I’m sorry,” she said, grimacing but not loosening her grip on his arm. “I could perhaps lead Rosalind if – are they catching up?”

“Not as far as I can tell.” His arm shifted slightly on her stomach and she knew he was trying to see behind them. They hit the ground hard again and he grunted, readjusted his grip on her. “I can’t tell.”

“We’ll just have to –” she paused and sucked in a breath when Rosalind swerved abruptly to avoid a tree, “to get out of this forest.”

“Agreed.” Chrom tightened his arm around her. “Hold on.”

“I’m trying,” she said, but her words were lost in the wind as Rosalind jolted forwards faster. 

Only a few more seconds passed before they burst out of the trees into the green pastures once again, and Maribelle immediately tried to turn slightly to see behind them and winced as she did so. “Are they there still?”

A pause as Chrom turned behind her again, his side hitting her back. “No. But they could just be a little bit slower.” 

“We should keep our pace,” she said. 

“Yes.” He leaned forwards slightly and she had to as well. “Try not to move, it might make it easier.”

“I’m trying,” she gritted out again, jostled around with each reverberation of Rosalind’s hooves hitting the ground. “It’s a little hard while we’re going so fast.”

Chrom’s mouth was just beside her ear. “Hold on, then. I’ll keep you upright.” 

She didn’t have the energy to protest that she was holding on, and had been the entire time; instead, she readjusted her grip on his arm and attempted to ignore the searing pain of her dress – or perhaps his arm – hitting her open wound.

Maribelle shut her eyes again, clenching her teeth tightly shut and trying to think of other things than their pace, the jolts of pain to her arm and to her legs. Tea, perhaps. Hot baths, drawn by Celia. Brushing out her hair in the mirror until it shone. Laughing with Lissa. Chrom’s smiling face. Her eyes flew open at the last thought and she gasped outright when another jostle to her seated position caused her wounded arm to slip to the left slightly and the wound hit what must have been Chrom’s glove.

“If they’re not here in a few minutes,” he said, his breath hot against the side of her face, “I’ll dismount and you can sit normally.”

“Fine,” she agreed through her teeth, “by me.”

More jostling. More uncomfortable riding. More time spent hearing him breathing hard in her ear. Surely by now minutes must have passed. 

“Are they still following?” she asked.

“A little longer,” he said. Maribelle could have cursed, but even though she was tired, propriety ran deeper still.

“Okay.” He paused, sat upright, and Rosalind, her precious Rosalind, sensed it and began to slow her pace. “No. They’re not following.”

“Thank goodness,” she said breathily, breathing hard. 

“Agreed.” Chrom removed his arm from around her; she immediately began to veer to the left before he grabbed her around the waist with his other arm. “Woah!”

“If you would let me get down first,” she said, still panting, grasping his arm, “that might be easiest.”

“Are you sure?” He was more careful this time – Maribelle felt him gradually move his arm instead of abruptly letting go of her. She grasped the front of the saddle with one hand and then realized she couldn’t get off the horse without making her skirts run all the way up her back.

“Chrom,” she said lightly, “would you please look away for a minute?” 

“What?” 

“Just – do it,” she said exasperatedly. 

“Um. Right.” Maribelle didn’t wait to check if he was actually doing what she asked, and threw her left leg over to the right side, and then slid off Rosalind, her skirts dragging behind her. 

She hit the ground and her legs buckled under her, her left thigh in particular aching in a way she knew was ominous. Shaking her head quickly to clear it, she stood carefully and shook out her skirts as quickly as she could. Her arm burned – she attempted to ignore it. “All right. Thank you.”

“Can I look now?” he asked. 

Maribelle looked at him – Chrom was still decidedly facing the other direction. “Yes.” 

He turned again and grimaced upon seeing her. Maribelle also looked at herself and winced. Her entire front, from her chest to her waist, was blotched red and brown. He slid off Rosalind in a far more dignified fashion than she had – Maribelle cursed herself for not taking the time to just have made Chrom wait for her to change into riding clothes – and strode over to her.

“Give me your arm,” he said quickly.

Maribelle frowned, hand still hovering over her own wound warily. “Why?”

“Just – give me it.” He held out his own hand and Maribelle slowly placed her left arm in it. He gripped her elbow and surveyed the wound – it ran down her upper arm, leaving the tight dress around it thick and wet. 

Chrom reached out his other hand to unsheathe Falchion and Maribelle instantly tried to pull her arm back. “What in Naga’s name –”

“You need to bandage that,” he said summarily, and before she could move or say a word, he dropped her arm and grasped his one shirtsleeve, skimming the blade across it to reveal a gaping tear. After strapping Falchion to himself once again, he took hold of the torn flap and ripped a long strip from his sleeve. He quickly began setting himself to tying it around her arm.

“No, no, let me,” she fussed immediately as he began to wrap the strip up her cut.

“Sorry,” he grimaced at her expression, “I know it hurts.”

“No, please,” she said, attempting to wave his hands away with her only free one. 

“You can’t possibly wrap it around your own arm,” he protested, finishing and tying it. “There.”

Maribelle frowned at her arm as the cloth fell down her arm limply in a mess of circles.

“Oh.” Chrom winced. “I see.”

“You didn’t tie it tightly enough,” Maribelle said, too tired to be properly irritated, and began attempting to untie the knot with her one free hand.

“No, I can do it,” he said quickly, untying it easily and beginning to rewrap it. “I’ll do a better job this time.”

“No.” Maribelle flapped her hand at him again and this time he did pause, hands hovering over her with cloth still in hand. “You take that side and just – hold it. Still.” 

“Okay,” he agreed sheepishly, offering her the other end of the cloth. 

“Thank you.” She began to loop the cloth around her own arm tightly, biting her teeth tightly shut to prevent any pained noises. Once completed, she held out her end to Chrom. “Tie this tightly.”

“Of course.” 

He accepted the cloth and half tied the knot before Maribelle stopped him. “Tighter. We want it to prevent the blood from draining out.” 

He grimaced a little bit but undid his work and started over. “Is this okay?”

“Tighter.” She waited until he had finally pulled the knot tight enough. “There.”

“Are you sure?” he asked warily. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

“I’m fine,” she said dismissively. 

“Whatever you say.” He eyed her as he finished but Maribelle met his gaze and he finally relented. “There.”

“Yes,” she said wearily. “Now. Rosalind.” She walked over to her horse and carefully lifted her arms to the saddle to pull herself up.

“Do you need help?” Chrom hovered insistently just behind her.

“I’m fine,” she snapped, breathing in quickly before attempting to haul herself up. “Just – one second.” 

“Can you even mount with your arm like that?” He paused only a moment, not waiting to hear a response before he grasped her waist and pushed her upwards. 

“Excuse me!” she yelped furiously, finding herself far higher than she had expected to be. “What do you think you are doing?” 

“Helping,” he said tightly from behind her.

“This is not helping!” she snapped. “Let go!”

“You’ll fall!” Chrom said, voice slightly muffled by her skirts. “You couldn’t mount not twenty minutes ago! Now you expect me to believe you can?”

“Greater feats have been accomplished,” Maribelle said snippily, nonetheless pushing herself the few inches farther and onto the saddle. Chrom let go as soon as she seemed steady, and she settled into the seat, took a moment to arrange her skirts over her legs before she fixed him with a glare. “What on earth did you think you were doing?”

“I told you,” Chrom folded his arms, unrelenting. “Helping.”

“And in what world is – is manhandling a lady like that decent behavior?” Maribelle huffed. 

“I – Gods,” Chrom shook his head in disbelief. “How are you even able to be angry at me at a time like this?”

Maribelle frowned, feeling her arm twinge acutely. “Excuse me for taking propriety seriously.”

"You could have strained your injury and made it worse," he explained shortly. "I was trying to save you the effort and the future recovery time."

"Be that as it may," Maribelle said, slightly chagrined but ploughing onwards, "I would appreciate it if you asked next time before you – you pick me up.”

He snorted. “I will.”

Maribelle bit her lip, looked to the forest behind them. “Chrom, do not misunderstand me. I do thank you."

“No, it’s fine.” He rolled out his shoulders. “We need to head back. I need to speak to Frederick. Those Risen were far too close to the castle, and they could be coming still.”

“Chrom,” Maribelle said insistently, grasping the saddle beside her. “Please – wait. I really should thank you. I – perhaps I spoke a little quickly. I am grateful. For everything.”

“It’s really nothing,” he said dismissively, grasping Rosalind’s reins and beginning to walk. Her horse dutifully began to follow him, head nodding along with the rhythm of her hooves. 

“Please listen,” she tried again, now staring at his back, at the dark blue of his shirt and the sagging tatters of his solitary sleeve. “I – Chrom, thank you for fighting up there. We would both be dead – I would certainly be dead otherwise. I may perhaps be – occasionally I speak quickly and… I have heard that I can have a bit of a sharp tongue. I apologize if I offended you. I assure you I am grateful for you regardless of what I may have said.”

Chrom paused and turned to look at her. “You know, you don’t need to thank me. It is nothing. I would have defended you. It's my duty.”

“Duty?” Maribelle frowned. 

He turned to face the castle again. “You know.” He waved a hand in the air. “‘I vow to protect you with my life, to fight for you until my last breath.’ I said that.”

Maribelle looked to her hand, currently streaked with brown dried blood that was unfortunately flaking off across her skirts. Her ring was noticeably absent, but the words echoed in her mind nonetheless. What she had vowed, months ago now. 

“Not that I wouldn’t have defended you either way,” Chrom added. “But you don’t need to thank me.”

“I am well aware of your penchant for saving those in distress,” Maribelle responded, touching her bare finger. “But I am alive – once again – due to your actions. Thank you.”

“Peace, Maribelle.” He cracked a small smile at her. “There is no need to lavish me in gratitude.”

She looked at her empty staff holder, just beside her knees. “Well, I rather failed you today. I also vowed to ‘fight with you and for you until my last breath.’ And I did not.”

He paused, frowning at her. Rosalind continued walking forwards, but Chrom waited until she was level with him and began to walk at her side instead, fixing his dark eyes on her face. Maribelle stared back at him, perplexed. 

“Which reminds me,” Chrom began grimly. “I need to lecture you for a minute.”

“Lecture?” Maribelle repeated.

Chrom nodded, jaw set.

“About what?” She half-expected a comment on her outfit, on her lack of riding attire, on her lack of foresight to bring her staff.

“What in Naga’s name did you think you were doing, not immediately leaving on Rosalind?” he asked sharply. “You could have died!”

“What?” Maribelle leaned back slightly in her saddle at the sudden violence in his tone.

“Yes, you said that!” Chrom insisted.

“I know I did,” Maribelle protested, “I told you, I couldn’t mount her!” 

“Not then. Before that!” He was truly glaring at her now, and Maribelle swallowed, shocked at the force in it. “You said – what was it – something about me who should have ridden Rosalind away?”

She looked to the side to avoid his gaze, to the castle ahead of them. “Oh. Yes. I suppose I did.”

“You suppose?” Chrom bit out. “Suppose?”

“Excuse me!” Maribelle lashed out as well. “Yes, I did say that! As a Shepherd, it was my duty to protect my commander and the exalt of Ylisse!”

“Your duty?” He scoffed. “Are you kidding?”

“Kidding!” Maribelle straightened and ignored the sudden lash of pain in her bruised leg. “How dare you!”

“How dare I?” Chrom huffed. “I dare because you are my wife!”

Maribelle’s mouth opened slightly. She blinked at him dumbly for a second, surprised by his words.

“And before you start saying something else,” he ground on, “you need to understand – your life is not less valuable than mine. How dare you ask me to leave you behind, especially when I can defend myself and you cannot?”

“That is not why I said what I did,” she started.

“You were asking me to leave you behind, defenseless!” Chrom waved an arm at the forest and then at her. “Look at yourself! Do you seriously believe it would have been anything other than a death sentence?”

“I was not leaving you behind!” Maribelle said irately. “It may have been your death sentence as well!” 

“I would have had a far better chance of defeating them and making it out alive,” Chrom pressed, “and more still since I would know you would be safe and would be able to get help.”

“I was not about to send someone back for your dead body!” Maribelle cried. 

“It is my job to protect you now,” Chrom retorted. “And don’t you even think about bringing up anything about the Shepherds like that again. I’m not your commander. I am your husband.”

“As your wife, then,” she said, flushing, “you don’t think it is also my job to protect my husband as best I can? You are the exalt, not I!”

“Gods!” Chrom was red now as well, eyes flashing. “Never say that again!”

“What?” Maribelle almost crossed her arms before her arm violently protested any movement with a sudden rush of stinging pain. 

“I mean it!” he ordered. “If I ever hear you say that again, I swear, Maribelle, I’ll not forgive you easily.”

“What on earth do you mean?” she protested.

“You keep telling me my life is worth more than yours – as though being the exalt makes me more valuable than you.” He scowled at her. 

“Of course being the exalt makes you more valuable than I,” she said indignantly. “You’re the leader of this nation! Why on earth do you think I would think otherwise? There’s an entire army dedicated to protecting this city and your life!”

“Well, fine, if you want to argue by that logic,” Chrom began, equally indignant, “isn’t that army also there for your protection? Do you not realize you’re the queen of Ylisse?”

“I am not of royal blood,” Maribelle said immediately. “The Royal Guard is not called so lightly.”

“You truly –” Chrom broke off and turned away briefly, releasing the reins he'd been holding onto. 

“Anyone would tell you the same.” Maribelle nodded smartly. 

He looked back at her, still walking at her side. She nodded at him again, and he shook his head and glanced away once more, grabbing ahold of Rosalind’s reins again they passed within the castle’s shadow. Maribelle could make out the stable roofs now, secured within the castle perimeters by a series of gates and walls.

“Maribelle, do you really think that’s what I want to hear?” Chrom asked. She glanced back at him to see an expression verging on pained. “Gods – do you truly believe I consider myself any better than any one of the Shepherds? Or the army?”

“You ought to,” she reprimanded him, and he grimaced at her disbelievingly. “But, no, I do not believe that you do.”

“It is not your job to protect me,” he said bitterly. “It is my job to keep you safe, not the other way around.”

“I can keep myself safe.” Maribelle met his raised eyebrows with a frown. “It is true. I hold my own on the battlefield. Or did I not prove that to you in Plegia?”

He shook his head. “That’s not what I mean.”

“That’s what you said.” Her frown became more pronounced.

He shut his eyes, scowled. “Fine. What I mean to say is – do not ever expect me to watch you get hurt at my expense. Do not ever – ever – expect me to value my own life above yours.”

“Chrom,” Maribelle began.

He held a hand up. “I get it. There are sacrifices that have to be made. People will die – have already died – defending me.” He paused, evidently finding the words themselves hard to pronounce.

“However,” he said, holding his hand up again before she could interrupt him again, “that does not mean I will ever expect you to make any sacrifices for me. You’re my… my wife. I would never forgive myself if I let you get hurt.”

She blinked at him. His ears had reddened and gotten darker through his speech, and now he stared straight ahead of them. His arm was exposed every other step as his ripped sleeve fluttered in the wind, and his every action clinked slightly as Falchion hit his belt. He had saved her life, tied her wounds, was leading her to safety, had declared he would protect her. Maribelle wondered how much stock she had put in the books she’d read all those years ago, where knights professed love and declared themselves protection for maidens riding sidesaddle – for her mouth was rising in a smile, a ball of heat was diffusing through her chest, her eyes were refusing to turn away from him. 

“Wh-What?” He had finally looked back at her, seen her gaze on him.

“It’s nothing.” She smiled at him. Chrom coughed uncomfortably, evidently uncertain how to respond, and continued walking at her side. Maribelle continued watching a second longer (his hand on the rein, guiding Rosalind gently; his straight back; the flick of his hair over his brow), and breathed in lightly to attempt to disperse the sudden happiness within her.

The stable entrance was visible now, and a guard shouted something indistinguishable in the distance. 

“They’ll be panicking because of your dress,” Chrom said, eyeing the guard before them. “And I’m afraid I’m rather easy to pick out even at a distance.”

“Fear not.” Maribelle flicked her curls back behind her shoulders with a toss of her head. “I am perfectly fine.”

“Glad as I am to hear that, I’m equally worried about the guards.” He grimaced suddenly. “Gods. I’m going to get quite the lecture, aren’t I?”

“Perhaps we will,” Maribelle said, careful to put an emphasis on the first word. “Do not worry. I believe any worries any guards may have can be handled. Besides, neither of us were badly injured.”

Chrom still looked like he had swallowed something Sully had cooked by mistake. “Well. Let’s hope.”


End file.
